She hesitates, examining my resolve, probably gauging whether I’ll crack. “I don’t know what to say. It’s been so long that I’ve felt . . . a lot of things. Abandoned, disregarded. I guess, jealous.” She pauses to tuck a ratty strand of hair back into the fray. “I was wrong. It was shortsighted to hold on to that for so long. It’s no secret I’ve always had issues with Mom and Dad, but . . . I would spend another night here to get them back.”

I stare at my sister, not knowing how to reply. “They . . . they loved us. They loved you.”

“They loved you more, though.”

I shake my head. “They weren’t perfect. No one is. We just had more in common for a lot of our lives. I’m absolutely guilty of exploiting that at times, and making you feel . . . I don’t know. The odd lady out.”

A smile pinches Angela’s face at the self-description she often used.

Deep breath. “I’m so sorry. It’s my fault that they—”

“Hey, don’t.” She shakes her head. “Let’s not do this now.”

“No—I’ve been waiting three years to say this face-to-face. Upright,” I add, recalling our conversation on the ground of the twin bones room. My voice falters. Tears well in my eyes, blurring Angela’s already dim features. “It’s my fault that Mom and Dad died. If I hadn’t asked them to come get me . . . they’d still be alive. It’s been eating away at me, and I understand if you can’t ever forgive me. But I need to say it. I’m sorry.”

Tears run down my sister’s face. She’s quiet a moment, and I feel the familiar ache in my chest, anticipating the ax of guilt to my bruised heart, exactly what I deserve. She fixes me with dark eyes. “Shayna. You are not responsible for their deaths.”

I don’t reply. My entire body tenses, too scared to break the moment.

She steps closer. “You couldn’t have known what would happen. It’s not your fault.”

Silence swims between us as I begin to tremble. I let another moment pass, give her the time to add a but or to take back her words. She doesn’t.

“Really?” I choke out.

She shakes her head. “It’s not your fault, Shayna.”

A sob escapes my clenched throat, and I lift two hands to my face. Her words of forgiveness are sweeter than anything I’d imagined or hoped for. I’d convinced myself they would never come. “It is my fault—no, it is. But . . . I’m working on moving forward from that.”

Angela wipes her cheeks. “I’ll help you.”