Cece and I are in the backyard after dinner at our parents.’ Despite several attempts to smooth things over after the way I talked to her the other day, my sister has been pretty hard to reach out to. But she has said a few vague things about Isaac. Like she knows something I don’t. Like if she was meaner, she’d use what she knows as a weapon against me. If we were closer, she’d probably have a heart-to-heart with me. But we’re in that tricky place because we’re sisters—like it or not—but not quite friends. “Isaac. Just...was that night at the museum just an innocent thing?” she asks, and I can’t tell if her mouth is twisted with annoyance because she’s remembering the events of that night or because she doesn’t want to come out and say what she’s saying. “It was an innocent thing, I swear.” I take a long pull of the sweetish Carta Blanca my brothers never pick up.
