I Thought My Son Was Just Having a Violent Meltdown—Until I Read the Message Someone Had Sent Him.

Ethan returned just before midnight, wet from the rain and smelling of cold air. Sarah had been waiting at the kitchen table with the note in front of her.

"Where were you?"

"Walking."

"For three hours? You scared your sister. You scared me. We'll talk about that tomorrow. Right now, tell me if someone is threatening you."

His phone vibrated. He stared at the screen, then turned it toward her. A video had arrived from the unknown number.

The picture was grainy, filmed from an upstairs window. It showed the garage on the night of the fire. Two boys stood beside the open door. One held a cardboard tube; the other waved him back. A flash burst into sparks. Smoke filled the frame.

The clip stopped before either face was clear, but Sarah recognized Ethan's jacket. She had washed the soot from it herself.

A message followed: You have until Friday to tell him the truth. After that, everyone sees it.

Ethan's voice shook. "You said it was the wiring."

"I was scared."

"Of me?"

"Of losing you too."

He laughed without humor. "You don't get to choose which truth I can handle."

Sarah didn't defend herself. "You're right. I should have told you."

He admitted the messages had started a month earlier. At first, they asked questions about the fire. Then they called him a coward and said Mason had paid for his mistake while Ethan got to play the grieving son of a hero.

"Did they tell you to hit Lily?" Sarah asked.

"No." He looked up sharply. "I did that. I was angry before the cake fell. I wanted someone else to feel as small as I did. Lily was there. I chose her. That's on me."

It was the first time he had said it without blaming the cake or the guests.

Sarah reached for his hand. He stepped away, but he didn't leave.