You turned the heat down under the pot, the faint hiss of simmering sauce blending with the soft clink of the wooden spoon against the enamel. The kitchen smelled of garlic, tomatoes, and the faint metallic tang of the knife you’d used to chop the onions—your hands still carried the scent, sharp and clean. Anne kicked off her boots by the mat, the leather scuffed from a day spent pacing crime scenes, and hung her coat on the hook with the same deliberate care she applied to everything. Her shoulders were tight, the kind of tension that didn’t come from paperwork.

Maria’s crayon scribbles were taped to the fridge in a crooked rainbow: a sun with too many rays, a dog that looked more like a cloud, and a stick-figure family holding hands. You’d helped her glue the last one up this afternoon, her small fingers sticky with paste, giggling when you pretended to be the daddy stick figure with a comically oversized head. The memory flickered across your mind like a match struck in the dark—warm, then gone.

Anne leaned against the counter, watching you. Not the way she watched suspects, but close. Her eyes, the color of wet slate after rain, lingered on the way your knuckles whitened around the spoon. You loosened your grip, casual, and tasted the sauce. Perfect. A little more salt, maybe. You reached for the shaker.

“New case,” she repeated, softer this time, as if testing the words. “Three bodies in six weeks. All women. All strangled. All left in public parks like they were… arranged.”

The shaker slipped in your palm, grains scattering across the cutting board like tiny bones. You brushed them into your hand, dumped them in the sink. The water ran cold over your skin, numbing the faint tremor you refused to acknowledge.

“Arranged how?” you asked, voice steady, the same tone you used when Maria asked why the sky was blue.

Anne’s gaze flicked to the window, where the last of the daylight bled out behind the neighbor’s jacaranda tree. “Posed. Arms crossed over their chests. Hair brushed. One had her shoes lined up neatly beside her. Like someone was… saying goodbye.”

You nodded, slow. The sauce bubbled, a low, wet sound. You turned the burner off. The silence that followed was thicker than the steam curling between you.

Maria’s voice floated down the hall, sleepy and sing-song. “Papa? I dropped my bunny.”

You moved before Anne could, your steps measured, the floorboards creaking under your weight like they always did at the third stair. In the hallway, the night-light cast a faint glow over Maria’s doorway, painting the walls in pale gold. She sat up in bed, hair tangled, clutching the stuffed rabbit by one ear. You tucked her back in, the ritual familiar: blanket to chin, bunny under arm, kiss on the forehead that smelled of baby shampoo and warm sleep.

“Bad dream?” you whispered.

She shook her head, eyes already closing. “Just dropped him.”

You lingered a moment, watching her breathing even out, the rise and fall of her small chest. Then you closed the door halfway, the way she liked it, and returned to the kitchen.

Anne hadn’t moved. She was staring at the fridge, at Maria’s drawings. Her finger traced the edge of the family portrait, the one where you’d drawn yourself with a smile that took up half your face.

“You okay?” you asked, sliding an arm around her waist. She leaned into you, but not all the way. Her body was a question mark.

“Just tired,” she said. But her hand rested on your forearm, thumb pressing into the vein that pulsed there, as if checking for a lie.

You plated the pasta, steam rising in lazy spirals. The table was set for three, Maria’s plastic dinosaur cup already filled with milk. Anne sat, picked up her fork, then set it down again.

“The last victim,” she said, voice barely above the hum of the refrigerator. “She was found yesterday. In the park by the old bandstand. Same MO. But this time…” She hesitated, eyes on her plate. “There was a hair. Not hers. Dark. Coarse. We’re running DNA.”

Your fork paused halfway to your mouth.