Maya Caldwell understood what Simone was about to do one second before the pink fabric touched the fire.
“No.”
Her voice disappeared beneath the wind coming off the Atlantic.
Simone Caldwell stood on the wide stone terrace of the family’s beach house in a silver cocktail dress, one hand gripping the bodice of Maya’s gown and the other gathering several yards of pink tulle. Behind her, flames rolled quietly through the rectangular gas fire pit built into the center of the terrace.
“Simone.”
Maya ran toward her.
“Don't.”
Simone looked directly at her.
Then opened her hands.
The gown fell.
Pink tulle collapsed across the black stones.
For one strange instant nothing happened. The skirt spread like a cloud over the fire, too wide and soft to look dangerous.
Then one edge caught.
Orange flame raced along the outer layer.
Maya screamed.
She lunged forward.
Renee Caldwell grabbed her around the waist from behind.
“No!”
“Let me go!”
“You'll burn yourself.”
“LET ME GO!”
Maya twisted hard enough that Renee nearly lost her grip.
The fifteen-year-old was barefoot, wearing an oversized pale blue button-down shirt over black shorts because she had been getting ready upstairs when Simone told her she wanted to “show her something.”
Now Maya watched the dress she had spent an entire summer choosing disappear in front of her.
The bodice had thousands of tiny hand-sewn beads arranged like falling stars.
The skirt was pink without being childish.
At least Maya had thought so.
Simone had called it “princess cosplay.”
Maya had ignored her.
For once.
That mattered.
She had spent years letting Simone tell her which colors were sophisticated, which hairstyles looked immature, which shoes made her legs look shorter, which photographs should be posted, and which should never leave the camera roll.
The pink gown had been Maya’s decision.
Her sixteenth birthday was tomorrow.
The dress was for the dinner that night.
Not a giant party.
Maya had refused one.
Instead there would be thirty people at the beach house: family, a few friends, two teachers, her grandmother, and people from the sea-turtle rescue center where Maya volunteered on weekends.
She had paid four hundred dollars toward the gown herself from money she earned working the rescue center gift counter during summer.
Her father paid the rest.
It was not an heirloom.
Her mother had never touched it.
No dead relative had sewn it.
Nothing about the dress should have carried enough family history to make someone destroy it.
That was partly why Maya had loved it.
It belonged only to her.
The fire climbed.
Beads began snapping in the heat.
The smell changed.
Maya stopped struggling.
Renee released her slowly.
Maya stood frozen.
Simone crossed her arms.
Twenty-four years old.
Beautiful.
Perfect black bob ending just above her shoulders.
Silver dress sparkling under the late-afternoon sun.
No shoes.
No tears.
Not yet.
“You're insane,” Maya whispered.
Simone’s jaw tightened.
“Don't.”
“You burned my dress.”
“I can see that.”
“You burned my dress.”
“Maya.”
Renee stepped forward.
“Please come inside.”
Maya turned toward her stepmother.
Renee was forty-nine, elegant even when exhausted, wearing a cream satin lounge set she had changed into after lunch. Her hair was twisted into a loose bun.
She looked horrified.
Not surprised enough.
Maya saw that.
“What did you think she was doing?”
Renee stopped.
“What?”
“You came outside with her.”
“I followed her.”
“You watched her carry my dress.”
“I thought she was taking it to the car.”
“Why?”
Renee looked toward Simone.
Simone smiled bitterly.
“Tell her.”
Renee closed her eyes.
Maya’s stomach tightened.
“Tell me what?”
Nothing.
Maya stepped closer.
“Why was my dress supposed to go into a car?”
Renee finally answered.
“Simone thought you should wear something else tomorrow.”
Maya laughed once.
The sound came out broken.
“So she was stealing it?”
“No.”