n Sunday morning, a little after eight, Sarah heard someone knocking at her front door. After hesitating, she finally got up to answer it. As she walked toward the door, part of her hoped it was Miles.

Another part hoped that it wasn’t.

Even as she reached for the handle, she wasn’t sure what she was going to say. A lot depended on Miles. Did he know that she’d called Charlie? And if so, was he angry? Hurt? Would he understand she’d done it because she’d felt she didn’t have a choice?

When she opened the door, however, she smiled in relief.

“Hey, Brian,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Sure . . . come in.”

He followed her inside and sat on the couch. Sarah sat next to him.

“So what’s up?” she asked.

“You ended up calling Miles’s boss, didn’t you?”

Sarah ran a hand through her hair. “Yeah. Like you said, I didn’t have a choice.”

“Because you think he’ll go after the guy he arrested,” Brian stated.

“I don’t know what he’ll do, but I’m scared enough to try to head it off.”

He nodded slightly. “Does he know that you called?”

“Miles? I don’t know.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“No. Not since he left yesterday. I tried calling him a couple of times, but he wasn’t home. I kept getting the answering machine.”

He brought his fingers to the bridge of his nose and squeezed.  “I have to know something,” he said. In the quiet of the room, his voice seemed strangely amplified.

“What?” she asked, puzzled.

“I need to know if you really think that Miles would go too far.”

Sarah leaned forward. She tried to get him to meet her eyes, but he looked away.

“I’m not a mind reader. But yeah, I’m worried, I guess.”

“I think you should tell Miles to just let it go.”

“Let what go?”

“The guy he arrested . . . he should just let him go.”

Sarah stared at him in bafflement. He finally turned to her, his eyes pleading.

“You’ve got to get him to understand that, okay? Talk to him, okay?”

“I’ve tried to do that. I told you.”

“You’ve got to try harder.”

Sarah sat back and frowned. “What’s going on?”

“I’m just asking what you think Miles will do.”

“But why? Why’s this so important to you?”

“What would happen to Jonah?”

She blinked. “Jonah?”

“Miles would think about him, wouldn’t he? Before he did anything?”

Sarah shook her head slowly.

“I mean, you don’t think he would risk going to jail, do you?” She reached for his hands and took them forcefully. “Now wait, okay? Stop with the questions for a minute. What’s going on?”

• • •

This was, I remember, my moment of truth, the reason I had come to her house. It was finally time to confess what I had done.

Why, then, did I not just come out and say it? Why had I asked so many questions? Was I looking for a way out, another reason to keep it buried? The part of me that had lied for two years may have wanted that, but I honestly think the better part of me wanted to protect my sister.  I had to make sure I didn’t have a choice.

I knew my words would hurt her. My sister was in love with Miles. I had seen them at Thanksgiving, I had seen the way they looked at each other, the comfortable way they related when they were close, the tender kiss she’d given him before he left. She loved Miles, and Miles loved her—she’d told me as much.  And Jonah loved them both.

The night before, I finally realized that I could keep the secret no longer. If Sarah really thought Miles might take matters into his own hands, I knew that by keeping silent, I was running the risk that more lives would be ruined. Missy had died because of me; I couldn’t live with another needless tragedy.  But to save myself, to save an innocent man, to save Miles Ryan from himself, I also knew I would have to sacrifice my sister.

She, who had been through so much already, would have to look Miles in the eye, knowing that her own brother had killed his wife—and face the risk of losing him as a result. For how could he ever look at her the same way?  Was it fair to sacrifice her? She was an innocent bystander; with my words, she would be irrevocably trapped between her love for Miles Ryan and her love for me. But as much as I didn’t want to, I knew I had no choice.  “I know,” I finally said hoarsely, “who was driving the car that night.”

She stared back, almost as if she didn’t understand my words.

“You do?” she asked.

I nodded.

It was then, in the long silence that preceded her question, that she began to understand the reason I had come. She knew what I was trying to tell her. She slumped forward, like a balloon being slowly deflated. I, for my part, never looked away.

“It was me, Sarah,” I whispered. “I was the one.”