And I turned to face my sister as myself.

“She claims the house is hers, Valerie,” I said, and my true voice, my own voice, cut through the damp air of that basement like something sharpened.

“Because I bought it for her.” Valerie spun around at the sound of it.

And for one long moment, her face did what a guilty person’s face does when the ground opens beneath them: it went dead pale, and she stumbled backward, catching herself against the washing machine, her eyes wide with the pure animal shock of being found out.

I had her.