The inside was small but neat—living room barely big enough for a couch and a coffee table, kitchen table shoved against a wall, a tiny shrine in one corner with a candle burned low in front of a saint’s picture. The air smelled like cleaning products and the tail end of last night’s beans.
“Sit.” She pointed at the table. “I do not have much, but I can make coffee.”
“You don’t have to—” I started.
“I am not talking to strangers without coffee,” she said flatly. Then, with a quick flick of her gaze to me: “Sit. You look like a man who drinks too much bad coffee. This is better.”
Well. She wasn’t wrong.
I sat. Madden did, too, perching on the edge of the chair like she was ready to bolt if this went sideways. Her eyes kept drifting to the bruises on Rosa’s throat, the fingerprints ghosting along her upper arm. No question someone had attacked her.
“I’m Rios. This is Madden.” I waited to see if she’d fill in the gaps.
“Rosa,” she muttered, moving with efficiency, filling a small pot, measuring grounds. When the coffee was on the stove, she came to the table, sat opposite us, and folded her hands. “Okay. You ask.”
Madden’s gaze softened, even as her posture straightened almost imperceptibly. “Miguel said you were attacked outside Home Port?”
Rosa’s hand fluttered toward the bruising before falling again. She nodded.
“Can you tell us what happened the night you were attacked?” she asked. “In your own words. Whatever you remember.”
Rosa blew out a breath, eyes sliding to the window for a second before coming back.
“I work late,” she began. “You know. We close; we clean. That night, Nicole sends the bartender home early. It was not so busy. Mostly tourists too drunk to notice.”
I flipped through my mental roster of Home Port employees we’d spoken to. Nicole was one of the night servers.
“What night was this?” I asked. “Three nights ago? Four?”
“Three nights before the girl disappeared,” she said. “I remember because Nicole was talking about her. The scientists from the station. She likes them. Good tippers.” A faint smile ghosted across her mouth. “I do not see this girl, but I hear about her.”
“Okay,” I said. “Go on.”
“I take the trash out.” Rosa’s hands tightened briefly, knuckles whitening. “Kitchen is hot. Smells like… fried everything. I like to get air for a minute. I go out the back, to the alley. There is light, but only a little. I put the first bag in the big bin.” She swallowed. “Then someone grabs me from behind.”
Madden’s fingers curled around the edge of the table. “How?” she asked softly. “Arm around your throat? Your waist?”
“Here.” Rosa touched her own chest, right under the collarbone. “One arm across, like a bar. The other—” She clamped a hand over her mouth, demonstrating. “He pull me back, fast. I drop the other bag. I cannot scream. I smell beer and something… stronger. Like cheap cologne and sweat.”
“Could you see anything?” I asked. “Clothes, height, build…”
“He is taller than me.” Her mouth twisted. “But that is not hard. Maybe your height,” she added, flicking her gaze toward me. “Strong. Not like… big, big, but tight. He wears a hoodie with the hood up. Dark. Cap under it, I think. I see the brim when he move his head.” She shuddered. “He tries to pull me between the dumpsters. Away from the door. Toward the back street.”
“Did he say anything?” Madden asked. “Anything at all?”
Rosa’s eyes turned distant. “He say…” She swallowed. “’Quiet now.’ Or ‘easy now.’ Something like that. His voice is low. Not shouting. Like…” Her face pinched. “Like he has done this before.”
My jaw clenched.
“What did you do?” Madden’s voice stayed even, but I could hear the tremor under it. She knew the answer. She just needed Rosa to say it.
“What I learned to do when men think they can put hands on me.” Some steel slid into her tone. “I stomp on his foot. Hard. I have boots. He makes a sound. His grip loosens. I twist, bite his arm.” She mimed the motion, fast and practiced. “He swears. I cannot hear all the words. Accent is… not heavy, but not like yours. Somewhere between. He tries to grab again, but I am small. I drop. Knee him in the cojones.”
“Do you know where you bit him? Which arm?” I was building a picture of prospective defensive wounds she’d inflicted on her attacker.
Rosa frowned and laid a hand on her forearm. “Here. Opposite me, so… right arm.”
“What happened after you kneed him in the balls?”
