On Easter, my sister’s twins dragged my six-year-old daughter into the red clay beside my workshop

By sunrise, Toby and Wayne Vance were sitting in the holding cells at the county jail, booked on charges of attempted second-degree arson and felony trespass.

Sheriff Miller didn't leave our porch until eight in the morning. He sat on our wooden swing, sipping black coffee from one of Aaron’s ceramic mugs, looking over the surveillance footage on Aaron’s laptop.

"Toby’s singing like a canary," Miller said, rubbing his weathered jaw. "Said Rhonda promised him five thousand dollars from her father's livestock sale next month if he burned out your dry lumber so you couldn't fulfill your custom furniture orders."

"Can you arrest her?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe, my arms crossed over my chest.

Miller sighed, looking out toward the driveway where Callie was currently squatting, checking on her row of buried sunflower seeds.

"Toby’s testimony is good, but without a written agreement or a wiretap, her lawyer will claim Toby’s a disgruntled delinquent trying to shift blame to his kin. But," Miller added, setting his mug down with a purposeful click, "it gives me probable cause to obtain a grand jury subpoena for her phone records and text messages."

"Do it," Aaron said.

"I already requested the warrant from Judge Holloway," Miller replied. "Arlin’s at the station right now. He’s in tears, Crystal. Honest to God tears. He didn't know about this. The old man is stubborn as a mule and crooked on business, but he ain't an arsonist. When he found out what Rhonda sent Toby to do, he threw up in the wastebasket in my office."

Hearing that should have made me feel victorious. Instead, it just tasted like cold ashes in my mouth.

"He enabled her, Sheriff," I said quietly. "For thirty years, Arlin let Rhonda believe that because she stayed close and flattered him, she was entitled to everything he owned—and everything I worked for. He built this monster."

"Aye," Miller agreed, standing up and settling his hat onto his head. "And now he’s got to watch it burn down his house."

Later that afternoon, the mail arrived with a certified courier. This time, it wasn't a quitclaim deed.

It was an official notice from the State Department of Human Services.

An anonymous report had been filed at six o'clock that morning alleging that Callie was living in an unsafe industrial workshop environment, exposed to chemical fumes, unattended heavy machinery, and parental neglect.