Grace's hands trembled as she stared at the glowing device, then back at her sisters. The morning light streaming through the library windows made everything feel surreal—too normal for the weight of what she was about to reveal.
"The night of the fire," Grace began, her voice barely above a whisper. "I was only five years old, but I remember it so clearly now. Mom had put me to bed early because she was expecting someone. I heard voices downstairs—angry voices."
Luna moved closer, taking Grace's hand. "It's okay. Take your time."
"I snuck out of bed and hid at the top of the stairs." Grace closed her eyes, as if watching the memory play out behind her eyelids. "Mom was arguing with someone. A woman. I couldn't see her face at first, but I remember her perfume—it was strong, like flower
