Getting her to the emergency room was a slow, painful process. The X-rays confirmed it: a fractured tibia. The doctor frowned. “If she’d walked much more on this, the bone could have displaced.”
I clenched my fists. “But she did walk on it—for three hours.”
Later, in the hospital room, Sophie finally told me everything.
“It wasn’t just a fall,” she said quietly. “Ben pushed me. As a joke. I tripped on the stairs. They all saw it happen.”
My throat went dry. “They saw?”
She nodded. “Uncle Mark laughed. Grandma told me to stop crying. Grandpa said I was scaring the tourists.”
I felt a kind of stillness inside me—a sharp, dangerous calm.
When I called my parents, my father answered with an indifferent tone. “Is she okay?”
“She has a broken leg,” I said flatly. “And I have proof.”
He sighed. “Well