"This is incredible, Mrs. Reyes," Cory said after his first bite.
"Luz, please. And of course it is. My mother's recipe." She beamed. "Izzy's is almost as good. She'll make someone a lucky husband someday."
"Mamá." Izzy wanted to sink through the floor.
Cory's lips twitched, fighting a smile. Seeing him here, letting Chantal show him her crayon drawing of a "police helicopter," accepting seconds from her mother, was surreal. Like two worlds colliding.
After a few minutes of dinner conversation, Luz's expression grew serious. She glanced between them, reading the tension neither could quite hide.
"Chantal, mi amor, it's time for your bath."
"But Abuelita?—"
"No arguments. You can show Chief Fraser your drawings another time." She pushed back from the table carefully. "Izzy, why don't you and the chief talk in the living room? I'll handle bedtime tonight."
Chantal pouted but gave in, stopping to inform Cory, "Next time you can read me a story. Mommy does voices."
"I'll remember that," he said solemnly.
As her family disappeared down the hall, Izzy was left alone with Cory in her cluttered living room, acutely aware of the Goldfish crackers ground into the carpet and the pile of clean laundry she hadn't folded.
"Your daughter's amazing," he said.
"She liked you." Izzy couldn't hide her surprise. "She's usually shy with strangers."
"Kids know when someone's genuine." He grew serious, that chief-of-police mask sliding back into place. "We need to talk about your jacket."
Right. Not a social call. No matter how natural he'd looked at her dinner table, laughing at Chantal's knock knock jokes.
"What's this about my jacket?" she asked, arms crossed defensively.
Cory turned to face her, and she was struck again by how he seemed to fill her small space. Not just physically, but with his presence, his quiet authority. "There's surveillance footage from last night at the Mountain Angel hangar. Eight p.m. Someone in maintenance overalls and your jacket entered the building."
The words hit like physical blows. "And you think I?—"
"I think someone's trying to frame you. The person in that footage made sure to turn directly toward the camera, but hide their face. Made sure the 'Firecracker' embroidery was visible."
"So you came here to arrest me?"
Of course he'd think the worst of her. She was the woman who defended vigilantes, who refused to color inside the lines?—
"Izzy." The way he said her name, soft but certain, made her look up. "Hello. You’re an elite operative. If you were going to sabotage an aircraft, you wouldn't be sloppy enough to wear your own jacket and pose for the camera."
The compliment caught her so off-guard she couldn't form words.
"Plus," he continued, a slight smile tugging at his lips, "you were at the church Christmas pageant practice when this happened. I already verified it. Half the town saw you helping Chantal with her angel wings. Mrs. Patterson was particularly vocal about how patient you were with the glitter crisis."
"You checked my alibi?" She didn't know whether to be offended or touched.
"I check everything. It's what I do." His expression turned serious again. "Where do you usually keep that jacket?"
Understanding dawned. "Oh. It's not... I mean, it stays at the Mountain Angel hangar. In the volunteer break room." Shestood, pacing to the window. "Martha had it embroidered as a joke when I first started volunteering."
"So anyone with access to the hangar..."
"Could have borrowed it." She turned back to him, the implications sinking in. "We all hang our gear in the break room. No locks, just hooks."
Cory's expression darkened. "Like your ex. I ran a background check on him."
