Her words: It was me, Theo—I said it was me back then because it was me, I was your older sister, it was my fault, I never should have—and the sound of their breaths, the quiet thrown across them like a blanket. Do you think of her? Sarah asked him. All the time, he answered, and in saying it realized just how true it was. Because it was me, he told his sister. Not you, Sarah. Me. I was the one driving like a fucking fool. They went on like this, Theo in Brooklyn, Sarah in Santa Monica, middle-aged, haunted, silenced for decades by their own terror and shame.
