‘I like that plan.’ Pride crept into Alyssa’s voice, and she shared a smile with Cord, knowing from his expression that he, too, was pleased at how Sandra seemed to fit in so seamlessly with their tight-knit group. She had no doubt the young officer would be a huge asset to whatever team she ended up with, even theirs.

At quarter to two, after dropping Sandra off, Alyssa and Cord pulled up to a rambling ranch in Del Luna, NM, a small farming community forty miles to the south of Albuquerque that touted more barns and tractors than houses or people. A curtain flicked to the side, and a towheaded boy’s face popped into view, followed by a younger, female version of him from the other side of the window.

Where the boy scowled, a look of distrust already present in his youthful features, the little girl’s smile was bright and orange-stained. She waved until the boy turned and said something that caused her grin to droop into a frown before she disappeared out of view.

‘Well, maybe at least one of them will be happy to see us,’ Alyssa quipped as they made their way up the worn gravel path, avoiding a bicycle, a Big-Wheel, and various other items in what resembled a bizarre obstacle course to the front door.

Just as Alyssa raised her hand to knock, a frazzled woman carting a toddler on her hip opened the door. Chewing on a pacifier, the child wound a hand through the woman’s thick hair as her bright blue eyes studied the strangers at the door.

‘You must be Detectives Wyatt and Roberts. I’m Rosalyn, but you can call me Ros. Please, come in but excuse the mess.’ Then twisting halfway around, she changed her mind. ‘On second thought, let’s talk out here on the porch. My house resembles an F-5 tornado or category three hurricane, take your pick.’

Cord chuckled as he stepped back out of the way, giving Rosalyn room to maneuver enough to close the front door after yelling to the kids not to kill each other or draw blood while she was outside. ‘Looks like you definitely have your hands full with three little ones.’

‘Yes, I do. Thank God one of them goes home later this afternoon.’ She tilted her head to the toddler attached to her hip. ‘I’m babysitting for a friend. I forgot how fascinating little ones find every single thing. And how anything they touch can turn into their idea of art. Like a can of mousse sprayed all over the toilet or a brand-new tube of lipstick used on the wall to draw me a picture of what I’m fairly certain she called a doll.’ She smiled indulgently at the little girl as she bent and kissed the soft wisps of hair plastered to the child’s head.