She told me Chad had said I protect people by assuming they’re incapable, and that he thought I was scared.

“Maybe I am,” I said.

She didn’t answer.

I left before she could turn that into another argument, and on the stairs I realized she had told me, without meaning to, that Chad was now advising her about me — that the man had begun, carefully, to put distance between my sister and the one person asking questions.

It is the oldest move in the whole ugly craft, I would learn later, reading about these things the way you read about an illness after the diagnosis: isolate the target from anyone who might see clearly on her behalf.

Chad had not told Monique to stop speaking to me.