“Who took this photo?”
Harper hugged Scout tighter.
“Daddy did.”
I blinked.
“Your father?”
She nodded.
My thoughts collided.
Clara had told me Harper’s father died before the fire.
A car accident, she’d said. Tragic. Sudden. Clean.
But Harper was looking at me now with the hollow certainty of a child who had learned truth was dangerous.
“Harper,” I said carefully, “your dad was alive that night?”
Her chin trembled.
“He tried to take me away.”
Before I could speak, my phone buzzed.
Clara.
I let it ring.
Harper looked at the screen and began crying without sound.
Then a text appeared.
Bring her home now.
Three dots followed.
Then another message.
Before she says something she’ll regret.
I looked at Harper.
She whispered, “The fire is coming.”
That was when I knew we were not going home.
Not yet.
