Kenzie screamed. It was a real scream, high and furious, and she lunged toward the fire pit, and Mark caught her by the arm, not hard, and held her back.
"Stay back," he said. "It's synthetic. It drips. You'll get burned."
"Let go of me! You psycho! That's my dress! That's my—" Kenzie twisted around, pearls flying out of her hair, and yanked her phone out of her back pocket. "I'm filming this. I'm filming this and I'm posting it and everybody's going to see what a psycho you—"
"Good," said Mark. "Film it. Get a good angle. And when you post it, post the one of the sink, too. I'll text it to you. Let everybody see the whole thing."
Kenzie stared at him, phone raised, and for a second, Junie saw her not understand. Then she did. She lowered the phone slowly. She didn't put it away. But she didn't press the red button either.
Dana had not moved. She stood on the pavers with her arms at her sides. The fire was settling now, the nylon gone to a black, bubbling crust on the oak. "You're insane," she said quietly. "You have lost your mind. I'm calling the police."
"Call them." Mark unzipped the second bag. The navy dress was heavier, with a beaded neckline that caught the light. "Tell them I burned two dresses I paid for out of my dead wife's life insurance, in my own fire pit, in my own backyard, with a hose in my hand. And then I'll show them the bank statements and the picture of the sink and they can decide who they want to talk to first." He held the navy dress over the fire. "I'm not insane, Dana. I've been asleep. For three years. I've been asleep because it was easier, because I was tired, because I wanted somebody to tell me everything was fine. You were real good at telling me that." He let go. "I'm awake now."
The navy dress went in. The beads cracked in the heat like popcorn. Junie watched the flame climb the bodice, watched it go dark and then bright, and something in her chest went up with it, some long-held, carefully folded thing she hadn't even known she was carrying. It did not feel like happiness. It felt like setting down something heavy after carrying it for so long that your arms had forgotten what not carrying felt like.
Her father picked up the hose. He waited until the flames had dropped back down to the oak, and then he gave the edges of the pit a short spray, steam hissing up, and checked the grass around the pavers, and set the nozzle back down within reach. He did it all without hurrying.
Then he turned to Dana.
"Here's what's going to happen," he said. "You and Kenzie are going to pack a bag, and you're going to go stay at your sister's in Wichita tonight. Tomorrow I'm calling Ted Ruskin about a lawyer, and Monday I'm calling the bank. You'll hear from somebody this week. If you want to talk about how to do this so it's easiest on the girls, I'll do that. Your girls, I mean. I mean all of them. But you're not sleeping in this house tonight."
"This is my house," Dana said. Her voice shook for the first time.
"No," Mark said. "It's Rose's house. I just forgot for a while."
For a long moment nobody moved. The fire popped. Somewhere down Larkspur Court, a lawn mower started up, absurdly, ordinarily, the sound of any Saturday.