Girl, 11 by Amy Clarke (grave mercy TXT) 📗

warm, spicy fragrance. They followed their noses to the kitchen, where Martín was wearing his favorite floral apron and twisting a salt grinder over a pot simmering on the stove. He was making his take on spaghetti and meatballs: the meat a blend of beef and minced chorizo, with a dash of chili pepper in the sauce. It was Natalie’s favorite.

“Hey, birthday girl!” Martín dropped the spoon into the pot and reached his arms out to catch Natalie, who ran into them and squealed when he lifted her up into his signature bear hug. They spun around once, and he set her down on the counter, pulling the spoon out of the pot and blowing on it before he offered it to her. “For your inspection, señorita?”

Natalie gave it a taste, and her eyes lit up. “I believe that’s your best work, señor.”

When Martín set her back on her feet, he pointed at the silverware drawer. “I know it’s your birthday, but would you mind setting the table? Your mom should be here soon.” As soon as the girl gathered the cutlery and left, Martín turned to Elle with a smile. His wavy black hair stuck out in a few random angles; he was always running his hands through it when it wasn’t covered by his surgical cap at work. Still stirring the pot, he leaned away from the stove and gave her a warm kiss.

“Smells delicious.” Elle turned to pour herself a glass of red wine.

“Thanks. How are you, mi vida?” Martín asked.

Elle remembered the first time he called her that in front of Natalie after she started Spanish classes last year. Elle hadn’t learned any until high school, and Martín spoke fluent English by the time they met, but she’d dug out her old college Spanish textbook the day after their first date anyway. She didn’t want to miss out on conversations when she met his family in Monterrey, and with Minnesota’s high population of Mexican and Central American immigrants, it had come in handy on the job too. But the fancy prep school Natalie attended let kids start from third grade, so she knew what it meant when he called Elle mi vida.

“Why do you call her your life?” Natalie had asked. “Is it because you can’t live without her?”

Elle had expected him to tell her it was a common term of endearment where he was from in Mexico, particularly between men and their wives, but instead he looked at Elle while he answered: “No, it’s because when I met Elle, she reminded me I spend too much time around death. She helps me remember to enjoy my life.”

He was being extra romantic that day, and Martín gave most men a run for their money in the romance department.

“Elle?” His voice brought her back to the present.

“I’m fine,” she said, knowing that her forced smile wouldn’t fool him. “I can’t believe Natalie is ten. Seems like just yesterday she was that skinny four-year-old knocking on my door out of the blue.” Elle blinked away tears and took a drink of wine.

Martín set the spoon down and pulled her into his arms. “This investigation is getting to you, isn’t it?” he asked, rubbing circles on her back.

Elle tensed. “I’m fine,” she said again.

He pulled away, meeting her gaze. “I know you are.” He looked like he wanted to say something else, but instead, he just nodded and turned back to the stove.

The doorbell rang as Natalie returned to the kitchen for plates. “I’ve got it,” Elle said.

“Geez, it’s cold,” Sash said, shivering as Elle shut the door behind her. Sash stamped her boots on the entryway rug and slipped them off, careful to avoid the melting slush on the carpet with her stockinged feet.

“My dad used to call this tongue-gluing weather,” Elle said, surprised by the sudden recollection. She hadn’t thought about her dad in ages. “You know, because of all the dumb kids who used to dare each other to lick something metal in the winter and then got their tongues stuck.”

Sash’s big bangle earrings caught the light when she laughed, her head tilted back. After unwinding her scarf, she pulled the purple knit cap off her head and set them both on the bench by the door. She’d shaved her hair off again sometime in the last couple days, leaving only a short fuzz that highlighted her elfin features. It was an odd look for a corporate lawyer and often led people to underestimate her, which made it all the more delicious when she decimated them in court.

“That’s great. I’m using that one.”

Elle led the way to the dining room, past the hallway mirror that reminded her she hadn’t showered or done anything with her hair today. She’d been locked away in her studio right up until she had to go pick up Natalie.

“Any new leads on TCK?” Sash whispered.

Elle paused. Aside from investigation, she didn’t get out of the house much, and most of the family members and witnesses she’d interviewed never said his name. It was unsettling to hear someone say the initials that had been running through her head for months, like a fading echo becoming loud again.

“Nothing new,” she said, glancing back at her friend. “It’s a little early yet.”

Sash smiled. “A couple of the associates were talking about the case in my meeting today. This is going to be your biggest season yet, for sure.”

Nodding, Elle tried to keep her expression neutral. She had felt pressure to solve the cold cases she investigated in earlier seasons on the podcast, but nothing compared to this. It had only been a few weeks since she launched episode one, but she already knew this case was going to be different. Her inbox was full of comments, theories, and criticism—not just from listeners in the Midwest, but Australia, Indonesia, England, the Netherlands. It felt like the whole world was watching her.

But she could do this. All the cases she’d worked before, the troubled children in