Three inches from her forehead lay the heavy black cast-iron skillet, a thin thread of gray smoke curling off its dark rim toward the white cabinets.

Vanessa stood two feet away beside the five-burner stainless gas range.

She kept her arms locked across her chest, her breathing quick and shallow under her tailored blue linen shirt.

“She reached all the way up and grabbed the handle,” Vanessa said, her voice high and fast.

“I told her twice to get away from the counter.”

I dropped to my knees next to the syrup, not caring that the sticky brown puddle was soaking into the hem of my skirt.

“Emma,” I whispered, keeping my voice down to the soft tone I used in my third-grade classroom.