He’d spent the morning charming the nursing staff, solemnly explaining that he was doing everything in his power to protect his fragile, traumatized daughter from the agonizing stress of the police investigation.

As he arranged the flowers, he mentioned casually that the fire inspector thought Mom had probably left one of her scented candles burning near the drapes.

I stared at him with wide, unfocused eyes, letting my mouth hang slightly slack. “I… I don’t remember, Dad. The smoke… it’s all just a black wall in my head.”

A microscopic wave of profound relief flashed across his facial muscles before he expertly buried it beneath a fresh veneer of paternal sorrow.

“That’s all right, El,” he murmured, stroking my unbandaged hand. “Maybe it’s a blessing. Maybe it’s better that way. Let the past turn to ash.”

Comfortable in his perceived victory, he began making mistakes almost immediately.