She was right. In five years of marriage Sophie had spoken of Lena only in fragments. An older sister. Ten years older. Protective. Difficult. Always followed by a change of subject.

“She doesn’t like me,” I said.

“She doesn’t know you.”

“She knows enough to send that message.”

Sophie pulled the blanket closer. “She knows the version of you I described when I was hurt.”

“Was that version accurate?”