The cruelest thing my sister said at her wedding wasn’t about my old dress or the fact that I arrived without a husband.

The rain came down in sheets over the dilapidated public housing complex on Third Street, drumming a relentless, metallic rhythm against the rusted gutters.

It was 11:30 P.M.

Lily was sound asleep in our tiny bedroom, tucked under an old quilt, her handmade yellow ribbon laid neatly on the laminate nightstand beside her drawing pad.

I sat at the small kitchen table, grading fourth-grade spelling tests under the buzzing hum of a bare fluorescent tube, sipping a cup of cheap black tea.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The aluminum screen door rattled so violently against its frame that the deadbolt latch nearly sheared off.

"OPEN THE DOOR, CLAIRE! OPEN THIS GODDAMN DOOR RIGHT NOW!"

Vanessa’s voice tore through the thin hallway, shrill, jagged, and completely unhinged.

I stood up, my pulse spiking into my throat. I walked to the entrance, keeping the heavy interior chain engaged, and cracked the door three inches.

Vanessa stood in the dim, yellow-lit corridor, looking like a phantom from a nightmare. Her hair was soaked, matted against her skull; her expensive lace gown was shredded at the knees, caked in street mud and black grease from the municipal bus she had been forced to take back from Newport.

Behind her stood Patricia, clutching a dented aluminum baseball bat, her silver dress soaked through, her eyes bloodshot and wild with toxic fury.

"You ruined my life!" Vanessa shrieked, slamming both palms against the wood. "You coached that brat to bring that drive! You planned this whole thing because you couldn't stand seeing me marry into the Ellison empire while you rot in this cesspool!"

"Go home, Vanessa," I said through the crack, keeping my voice level despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. "You’re intoxicated and you’re trespassing."

"Home?!" Patricia screamed from the landing, brandishing the bat. "What home, you ungrateful little bitch?! The bank sent a foreclosure marshal to the house on Ocean Avenue two hours ago! Graham pulled the bridge loan guarantees! We have nowhere to sleep tonight because of your little bastard!"

"The house on Ocean Avenue was paid for with my father’s life insurance," I snapped back, my anger finally breaking through my restraint. "The insurance money you stole from me when I was eighteen by forging my signature on the probate waiver! You spent every dime on Vanessa’s private school, her modeling portfolio, and her European vacations while I worked thirty hours a week cleaning hospital floors to pay for my teaching credential!"

Vanessa let out a guttural, feral screech. She reached into her canvas tote bag, pulled out a plastic bottle filled with clear liquid, and unscrewed the cap.

The sickening, pungent odor of gasoline hit my nostrils immediately.

"You think you won?!" Vanessa screamed, splashing the fuel across the wooden threshold and down the hallway carpet. "You think you get to sit in here and laugh at me?! If I don't get that mansion, you and that little monster are burning inside this rat trap tonight!"

She pulled a silver Zippo lighter from her pocket.

Clink.

The spark caught on the flint. A tiny yellow flame flickered in her trembling fingers, inches from the gasoline-soaked carpet.