Criminal puzzles In Texas

Chapter Five

The backyard smelled of lavender and chlorine. The screen door gave a protesting squeak as it swung shut behind Victoria, and she caught sight of Samantha mid-sprint across the garden path. Her sneakers clattered against the stone, hair flying behind her like a banner of excitement.
“Wow, great!” Sam shouted, nearly tripping over her own shoelaces as she tore toward the far corner of the yard.
Victoria followed more slowly, her steps softer, deliberate. Her jeans bore the faded marks of bleach from years of field kits and late-night laundry mishaps, but she didn’t notice. Her eyes were on Samantha, who had stopped suddenly, arms spread wide at the edge of the pool like she might dive straight in, shoes and all.
The water glimmered like a sheet of glass, framed by old slate pavers, sunlight flickering across the fence in restless patches of gold.
“Mom! This is amazing. Between this and the school’s pool, I might actually become a fish.”
Victoria let out a low laugh, her hand brushing across the lavender stems by the patio. The blend of flowers, grass, and faint chlorine tugged her shoulders down, loosening the knots that had carried across state lines.
“Promise me one thing,” she said, pretending to scold. “No wet footprints through the kitchen.”
Sam spun on her heel, walking the pool’s edge like a model on a catwalk. “No promises! This is totally my zone now. Early swims, midnight floats, flamingo floaties. I’m claiming it.”
“You’re practically glowing,” Victoria said, shaking her head. “Do I need to file paperwork that I now live with a mermaid?”
Sam laughed, lifting her arms dramatically. “Only if I get a crown. Maybe a sequin cape.”
Victoria smirked. “Subtle. I was thinking more rattan chairs, string lanterns, maybe a planter or two.”
Sam tapped her chin like she was negotiating a contract. “Okay, so you’re saying… create a vibe. I can work with that.”
They drifted along the garden’s edge together, brushing against rosemary sprigs near the kitchen window, bees humming lazily around the jasmine clusters. Victoria pictured slow Saturday mornings out here — coffee steaming in her hands, Samantha diving clean into the water with a laugh. Nights too: soft fairy lights, quiet dinners, maybe even a rare exhale of peace.
“I think we’re going to be really happy here, Sammy,” she said quietly, almost like saying it too loud would break the spell.
Sam paused at the deep end, her reflection warped by the ripples. She folded her arms, then looked back toward the house. The shutters caught the last of the sun, throwing stripes of shadow across the siding. Finally, she said, softer, “Yeah. I actually think so too.”

Inside, the living room was painted with dappled sunlight. Leaves outside tossed shadows across the walls, and the faint tang of pine cleaner still clung beneath the cardboard and bubble wrap.
Upstairs came the sound of hurried footsteps, then a triumphant shout. “I still love my room!”
Victoria smiled to herself, taking the stairs slowly. They creaked under her weight — old wood, yes, but sturdy. The hallway was already a scatter of Samantha’s things: a hoodie hanging off the banister, a half-zipped duffel spilling notebooks, a sketchpad shoved against a box labeled POSTERS + STUFFED ANIMALS.
When Victoria stepped into the doorway, Sam was kneeling on her new bed — or the mattress they’d finally unrolled — holding a knotted strand of fairy lights like they were treasure.
“I’m glad you didn’t change your mind,” Victoria said, leaning on the frame.
Sam gestured toward the wide corner window, which spilled golden light across the floor. “Change my mind? Look at this! It’s like… my own art studio with a river view.”
The breeze shifted the sheer curtains, carrying in the earthy smell of water and damp grass. Sam lifted the fairy lights. “I’m wrapping these around the window. And then maybe we repaint? Hear me out: dark teal.”
“No black walls,” Victoria said firmly.
“Okay, but teal is sophisticated.”
“We’ll talk,” Victoria said, though the tug of a smile betrayed her.
Her own room was next door, smaller and warmer — apricot walls, slanted beams, just enough space for the bed and a desk. The attached bathroom had a chipped mirror, mismatched tile, but somehow she could already see it softened with lavender soap and a towel hanging neatly.
Downstairs, the heavy thud of boxes announced the movers’ final run. Victoria pulled herself away and went to meet them.
On the porch, one of the men — tall, silver threaded through his dark hair, broad-shouldered in a way that spoke of years of hard labor — handed her a plain business card.
“Ian Johnson and Co.,” he said. “Repairs, hauling, last-minute jobs — call anytime.”
Victoria turned the card over in her hand. No logos, no taglines, just a number. Clean. Straightforward. She liked that. “Thanks. I might.”
He tipped his cap, and the truck rumbled away.

For a moment, she lingered on the porch. Through the open upstairs window, Sam’s voice drifted down, laughing about glittery pins and missing batteries. It was a light, unguarded sound that threaded through the unfamiliar air and made the house feel less strange.
When Victoria finally closed the door, the lock clicked softly behind her. The smell of sunlight and new paint lingered. Her shoes were off. The boxes waiting didn’t look impossible anymore.
They had done the hard part: leaving.

Tomorrow would mean unpacking, schedules, and stepping into the forensics office for the first time. Tomorrow meant Alan, and all the questions she hadn’t dared rehearse answers for.
But tonight, there was only the hum of cicadas outside, the quiet shuffle of Sam arranging her room, and the steady promise of water glinting just beyond the garden hedge.
For tonight, quiet was enough.