Criminal puzzles In Texas

Chapter Two

The cardboard box wouldn't stay closed.
Victoria sighed, pressing down the flaps again and securing them with another strip of packing tape. The faint scent of lemon cleaner still clung to the air, mixing with the dry Arizona dust that drifted through the open back door. It was the scent of endings - of goodbye. The kitchen, once the busiest part of the house, now looked like a staged memory. Bare counters. An empty dish rack. A familiar magnet clinging to the fridge with no purpose. The kind of silence that made her ribs feel tight.
The last coffee mugs went into the box, wrapped with old dish towels and muscle memory. Each one had a story - Samantha's "I'd rather be swimming" mug, her own chipped CSU Phoenix one from her first year in field ops. She paused as she placed it inside, brushing her thumb over the faded gold lettering before tucking it between layers of worn fabric.

Somewhere down the hall, Samantha was singing under her breath, the muffled beat of her playlist leaking from a Bluetooth speaker. The sound was faint, comforting - and marked a shift. After two days of protest and sulking, her daughter had finally started packing. Victoria allowed herself a small breath of relief.
Still, it hadn't been easy. The compromise over the bedroom and potential new dog had helped. But even that had been a negotiation. One victory in a long game. She leaned back against the counter, wiping her hands on her jeans. The sky beyond the window was cloudless - that particular shade of desert blue she'd miss without realizing. The sunlight poured in gently, illuminating the packed boxes by the door and catching her reflection in the dark glass of the microwave.
She looked tired. And beneath that, older. Not just in years, but in weight. In the layers of decisions and secrets that clung to her like forensic powder. No matter how many clean breaks she tried to make, one truth stayed stubbornly embedded in her thoughts - like residue under fingernails.
Alan Caine.
The name alone stirred something restless in her chest. She hadn't spoken it aloud in over a decade, but now it hung in the quiet like a memory too sharp to ignore. She stared at her reflection a bit longer, then turned away and walked into the living room, where more boxes waited.

It had been San Diego. A warm evening after a crowded criminology seminar. She had been 25, barely out of academy blues, invited to attend because someone in her unit had gotten sick. Alan was the keynote - polished, charismatic, the kind of man who commanded a room without needing to raise his voice. She had watched him speak on forensic leadership and interagency case strategies, taken pages of notes, and stayed seated after most of the audience had left, unsure if she was fascinated by the content or just by him.
He had approached her. Smiled. Asked her opinion on his theory about spatial memory in arsonists.
She had blushed. Then answered. They talked for an hour in the hotel bar. One drink became two. Then a third. They laughed. Swapped field stories. Compared blood pattern casework. By the time the conversation had shifted from autopsies to favorite wine labels, she knew it was already happening. That invisible gravity pulling them closer.
The next morning, they returned to their separate cities with the kind of nods that left no space for what-ifs. Nine months later, Samantha was born.
Victoria pressed her palms to her face, exhaling slowly. She had never told him. Not then. Not after. He was married. She had checked. His life was complicated - and so was hers. Telling him would've upended everything. And besides... she hadn't needed him. But now? Now she was being transferred to his unit. His city. Of all the assignments, she thought grimly, San Antonio had to be the one.
"Mom?" Samantha's voice broke the silence. She padded into the room barefoot, holding a rolled-up sketch in her hand. "Can we keep this out of the car boxes? I want to show it to my new design teacher - if they have one."
Victoria smiled, taking the sketch. It was a full-color concept drawing of a long, structured jacket with sharp lapels and layered textures. Even the stitch lines were drawn in. Samantha had talent, real talent. "Absolutely. We'll put it in the backpack with your swim bag," Victoria said. "Along with your planner and probably seventeen pens."
"Twenty," Sam corrected, biting into a green apple she'd snagged from the counter. "Do you think the new school has a decent swim team?"
"I checked," Victoria said, grabbing a Sharpie to label another box. "They're in the top three in the region. Heated pool. Indoor lanes. Full-time coach."
Samantha nodded, clearly trying to hide the grin that was creeping in behind her apple. "That's... cool."
Victoria watched her for a beat. The girl had her fire - that subtle but unrelenting determination. It was in her posture. Her eyes. The way she still muttered time splits under her breath when she stretched in the mornings.
Sam wandered back to her room, and the house fell quiet again. Victoria turned toward the stack of boxes by the door, her smile fading as fast as it came.
The house they were moving into was a fixer-upper. The kind of place with 80's wallpaper peeling at the corners, creaky vents, and a garage that needed gutting. But it wasn't the home itself that weighed on her. It was who was waiting on the other end of the move.
Alan.
Would he know her right away? Would he recognize the curve of Samantha's chin - that same stubborn tilt he used to get when he was about to win an argument? Would his eyes widen in realization? Or worse, would he say nothing, and quietly piece together the timeline?
And Samantha? What would happen if the truth slipped out? Victoria had told her almost nothing about her father. The story had always been vague. Convenient. Not a lie, exactly - but not the full picture either. Just a name and a "he left before you were born" and the unspoken thread that he wasn't part of their story. But now he would be. Every day. In briefings and crime scenes and department meetings. The father who didn't know he was a father, working alongside the daughter who didn't know he existed.

Tomorrow, they'd leave Phoenix behind. Hit the road before sunrise. Twelve hours of driving. A new life waiting at the end of I-10.
Victoria picked up a marker and added one final note to the last box: Kitchen - fragile, open first.
She stared at the label for a moment. Fragile. That about summed it up.