Chapter One
ANALYSE
“Would you believe me if I told you the husband wasn’t the killer this time?”
I snort into my coffee. “Doubt it.”
Taking a slow sip, I let the warmth spread through me as the host continues unraveling the case. Nothing like a little murder with my morning routine. The house is quiet—just me, my coffee, and the soft crackle of my earbuds. In about twenty minutes, Maya will wake up, and I’ll have to trade cold cases for cartoons. But for now, it’s just me and the mystery.
I take another sip, savoring the few peaceful minutes I have left. The kitchen is dim, lit only by the glow of the range hood light, and the sky outside is still an inky blue. The whole house is quiet—no tiny footsteps yet, no cartoons blaring from the TV.
I glance at the clock. Any minute now.
The podcast continues playing in my earbuds as I lean against the counter, but my mind drifts. Today is—what? Thursday? No, Friday. The end of the week, not that it makes much difference. Lately, all my days blur together intoa mess of work, getting us both out the door for school, and reheated coffee.
“Authorities now believe the timeline is off by at least two hours, which changes everything.”
I hum under my breath, tapping my nails against the ceramic mug. Changing a timeline is huge. If the time of death is wrong, then the alibi?—
A soft sound pulls me from my thoughts—the shuffle of blankets, a tiny sigh. Just like that, my alone time is over. I set my mug down as I hear the familiar creak of Maya’s bedroom door. Light footsteps tap down the stairs, slow and steady, the rhythm of a little girl who isn’t quite awake yet.
I glance up just as she peeks around the banister. First, the mess of brown curls—wild and unruly like mine. Then, those big brown eyes, blinking sleepily, and her round cheeks, still warm from sleep. She clutches her stuffed frog to her chest, studying me like she’s deciding whether she’s ready to fully commit to being awake—although I know she doesn’t really have a choice. Then, without a word, she crosses the room and tugs at the hem of my sweater.
I look down, smiling. “Morning, mija.”
She rubs her eyes, her voice still thick with sleep. “I had a dream that I won the pie-eating contest.”
“Oh yeah?” I reach for the frying pan, setting it on the stove. “Did you finally beat Alejandro?”
She lets out a long, dramatic sigh, which I’m going to take as a no. “Ialmostdid. But then I started laughing and got pie up my nose.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Maya, that’sexactlywhat happened last year.”
“Iknow, Mami. But this time, I wasso close!” She slides onto one of the chairs at the table, her little hands animated. “I had a whole strategy—no laughing, no looking at Alejandro, justpie.”
I nod seriously. “That sounds like a foolproof plan, mamita.”
“I know, right?” She swings her legs back and forth. “Ahora tengo hambre.”
I smirk. “Let me guess—pie for breakfast?”
She gasps. “Can I?!”
I give her a look.
“Fine.” She sighs like she’s suffering. “Salchichas con huevos?”
I nod. “Deal.”
She grins. “Ooh! And maduros!Please, Mami?”
I shake my head, already standing. “Fine. Go get dressed. It’ll be ready when you come back down.”
She squeals and runs back up the stairs, her curls bouncing behind her.
I pause for a moment, watching her go. She looks so much like me, and her attitude matches mine, too—sharp, stubborn, and full of fire. Sometimes it’s hard to believe she’ll be seven soon. It feels like just yesterday she fit perfectly in my arms, this tiny, perfect human. I remember the first time I looked into her eyes, the way love crashed over me so completely it almost knocked the breath from my lungs. I knew right then—I would tear the world apart for her.
What Istilldon’t understand is how anyone could know of her existence and not want to be in her life. How someone could walk away from something so pure, so beautiful, and not realize how privileged we are to love her.
