As she drove, she unrolled her window more, uncaring that the air was heating up the interior of her car. She was glad to be on the open road, if only for twenty or thirty minutes. When her exit came up, she was almost disappointed. But the real world was always waiting.

She took the exit and wound through San Marcos near Texas State University. Following a familiar route, she located the Sanchezes’ small one-story residence, located on a cul-de-sac. It was a typical suburban home.

“I could kill that man. He deserves to die,” Mr. Sanchez had said to Jordan. His wife had laid her hand on his arm and told him he did not believe that. “Why not, Constance? I could kill him.”

Jordan parked and walked up the stone sidewalk to the front door. She rang the bell and stepped to the side. Resting her hand on her weapon was protocol, but it felt more like an insult in this case. Still, she was here alone, and precautions mattered.

The front door opened to Constance Sanchez, the welcome in her gaze turning questioning. “Detective Poe, what brings you here?”

“I came to talk to you and your husband. Is he here?”

“Yes, he’s in the kitchen making chili. Please come in.”

Inside the house, painted in buttery yellows, the rich scents of tomatoes, onions, beef, and cumin greeted her.

“Is there a problem?” Mrs. Sanchez asked.

“We need to talk.” Jordan’s direct tone indicated this was not a social call.

“Of course.”

They passed down a hallway filled with pictures of Elena Sanchez. A smiling infant in pink, a little girl on Santa’s lap, a ten-year-old dressed for soccer, the young woman in a bright-blue prom dress, and the high school graduate ready to take on the world.

They found Peter Sanchez at his gas-burning stove, leaning over a pot of steaming chili. Her stomach rumbled, and she realized she had not eaten today.

“Detective Poe is here,” Mrs. Sanchez said.

Mr. Sanchez reached for a small bowl and ladled in chili. “First you try my chili. I bet you haven’t eaten today.”

“I have not.” She accepted the bowl, scooped up a spoonful, and blew on the hot liquid before tasting the rich flavors. “Amazing.”

“Not too much salt?” he asked.

“Perfect.”

“My husband always has something cooking on the stove, and his culinary skills are good therapy.”

Cooking was his escape from the memories waiting for him each time he walked down the hallway of his house. “I can taste your devotion in the cooking.”

“Eat,” Mr. Sanchez said.

She understood this was his process. He was building up the nerve to hear whatever it was she had to say.

“Are you going to eat?” she asked.

“I eat while I cook.” He rubbed his rounded belly. “Constance says I’m getting fat.”