My sister, Emma, and her husband, Brad, lived six blocks away. Six blocks these little boys had walked in the pitch-dark, alone and terrified.

“Stay here,” I said, my voice thick. “I’m making hot chocolate. The good kind, with marshmallows.”

I’d known something was deeply wrong for months. Emma was my older sister by three years. Growing up, we’d been inseparable. She’d protected me from bullies in middle school, helped me study for my SATs, and loaned me money when I was broke in college. Then she married Brad Thompson.