We had just started eating dinner when the fire alarm suddenly blared.
At first, I assumed it was an error.
My six-year-old daughter, Emma, sat across from me at my sister’s dining table, nudging peas around her plate with her fork. The alarm shrieked from the hallway ceiling, piercing and nonstop. A red light flickered against the white kitchen cabinets.
“Mommy?” Emma murmured.
Then I caught the smell of smoke.
Not burnt toast. Not a candle.
Actual smoke.
I yanked Emma out of her chair so quickly her cup tipped over, spilling across the table. “Cover your mouth, baby.”
My sister, Vanessa, had invited us to her townhouse in Queens for what she called a peace dinner. We hadn’t talked much since our mother passed away and left her house to me instead of Vanessa. She smiled too sweetly when we arrived. She poured wine I didn’t drink. She kept glancing at my purse, my keys, my phone.
Now she was gone.
