He had told one girl she’d have to earn her place by outlasting the other, and he’d been too drunk and too pleased with himself to notice which of his daughters was the kind who’d take that literally.

Grandma had noticed. Grandma had seen the whole thing coming, twelve years out, and quietly made sure the poison had nothing to land on.

My father had spent those same twelve years admiring the wrong daughter’s “strength,” never once wondering what she was being so strong about. Now he stood in a hospital hallway holding the proof that his favorite child was a criminal and his overlooked one had been telling the truth all along, and he had no speech for it. For once in his life, my father had nothing wise to say.

Victoria looked as though the floor had dropped out from under her. The blood was gone from her face and her breath came short and ragged.

“No. No, that’s not — you’re lying. It’s my house. It’s mine!”

“It was never yours,” Harrison said quietly.