"What is that?" Bianca tilted her head to see the evidence bag in Mr McKenzie’s grasp, but it was quickly handed off to one of the paramedics.

"It’s a plastic glove,” Mr McKenzie said. “Doesn’t seem to belong to Ramona.”

 I didn’t respond—grief had stolen my voice. Even forming words felt impossible, my mind drowning in memories of Ramona’s years of service at the Delgado household. How she’d cared for us, solved problems before we even asked. How she’d sometimes brought me a caramel macchiato when I studied late into the night, or surprised me with bouquets of roses on my birthdays. She’d treated me with more tenderness than any...