I carried her across the grass to Mrs. McDaniel’s porch.

The old woman was waiting with the screen door open. She’d made cocoa she probably knew Chloe wouldn’t be able to drink yet. A wool blanket lay folded on the couch, and in the middle of the cushion sat a bright orange stuffed cat she’d borrowed from her own granddaughter — parked there like a small sentry waiting for a friend.

Chloe curled into my side on that couch, clutching the orange cat against her chest, refusing to let go of my sleeve.

Through the front window, my house pulsed red and blue.

Detectives went in and out carrying paper evidence bags. Phones, tablets, and laptops were logged into inventory. The red fuel container was photographed where it sat on the driveway.

The concrete was marked with yellow chalk where the liquid had splashed. Officers knocked on doors up and down the street, taking statements from neighbors who admitted they’d heard screaming and hadn’t called, because they’d assumed it was a family matter.