My new wife’s seven-year-old daughter burst into tears every time we were left alone together. Whenever I gently asked her what was wrong, she would only shake her head silently. My wife would just laugh it off and say, “She simply doesn’t like you.”

The garage was on fire.

I ran to Harper’s room, grabbed her from bed, wrapped her in a blanket, and carried her out. Smoke rolled through the vents as we reached the sidewalk. Firefighters arrived minutes later.

Then Clara pulled into the driveway.

She stumbled from the car, her face twisted into perfect panic.

“Oh my God! Ethan! Harper! Are you okay?”

She hugged us, sobbing against my shoulder.

Her tears felt poisonous.

Later, the fire marshal pulled me aside.

“We found accelerant,” he said. “Paint thinner poured near the door into the house. This wasn’t electrical. Someone wanted it to spread.”

Clara stood nearby, trembling.

“Who would do this to us?”

I looked at her and saw the performance beneath the fear.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But the police will.”