Chapter Four
The aromas hit Isabela before she’d even finished crossing the threshold.
She paused in the entryway, breathing in the familiar scents of home.
There was cilantro, Pine-Sol, and freshly cut grass which told her the windows were open.
Her shoulders relaxed just a little. Is this why I really moved back?
“Auntie’s here!”
Her youngest nephew barreled past in a blur, waving an empty paper towel roll like a sword. His older brother followed close behind, wielding his own cardboard weapon and howling with laughter.
Izzy blew them a kiss, toeing off her heels with a sigh of relief. She flexed her aching toes and, after a second to collect herself, padded barefoot toward the back of the house.
The kitchen was the heart of the Cruz home. Even when she was younger, her most vivid memories were rooted in this space. The clatter of pans, the smell of frying onions, the ever-present hum of family orbiting around the table. Tonight was no different.
Her mother was at the stove, stirring something bubbling and fragrant, while her dad chopped vegetables like he was auditioning for a cooking show.
At the kitchen table sat her abuela, her brother Nic, and his oldest son, Jalen.
The three of them had their heads bent close, watching something on a phone.
A second later, they erupted in laughter.
Nic wiped at his eyes and looked up. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
“What’re you guys watching?” Izzy asked, approaching the stove and inhaling deeply.
“This guy taught his dog to dance to Crazy in Love,” Jalen explained between snickers. “You got to watch it.”
“I’m good,” Izzy said, smiling as she leaned in and kissed her mother on the cheek. She took a greedy whiff of whatever was simmering in the pot. “Mmm ... heaven.”
“Set the table, Mija,” her mom said without turning around.
“Yes, mama.”
“The prodigal daughter has returned. Light caseload this week?” Nic teased, though the warmth in his voice gave him away.
“Actually no, work’s been a shi ... a lot,” she caught herself mid-swear as her abuela shot her a sharp glance.
“I needed some comfort food.”
She laid out the placemats and dishes quickly, familiar in her rhythm, then sank into the nearest chair and took a long sip of water from whatever glass was closest.
“And some family time,” her dad said, still chopping away.
“Yes,” she nodded. “That too.”
“It’s okay to take time for yourself, Isabela,” her mom said gently, glancing back.
It should be, but it wasn’t. She would never admit this to her parents, but when she moved back to Seattle, it wasn’t for a slower pace or more family dinners.
It was for one thing: partnership. This firm gave her a real shot at it, in years, not decades.
She’d left behind a prestigious but suffocating office in Chicago for this calculated leap forward.
There was no room for short cuts or early nights. Except this one. Well, and last night.
She thought about Chris’s voice earlier, laced with that mocking laugh. “Wow. Nice hours you folks work.”
It stuck with her more than it should have. Did the other attorneys think that too? That she was soft? A slacker? Trying to find balance felt like trying to walk a tightrope in her heels, with people watching, waiting for her to slip.
The clatter of a bowl landing in front of her snapped her out of her thoughts. Chicken tortilla soup, piled high with crispy strips, fresh lime, and avocado. It was her favorite.
“Thanks, Mama,” she murmured.
Her dad slid into the chair beside her, nodding approvingly at his handiwork. “So, working on anything interesting, my love?”
Isabela froze with her spoon halfway to her mouth. Too interesting, her brain supplied. She gave a shrug, aiming for casual. “Nothing worth ruining dinner over.”
“Then definitely spill,” Nic grinned, lifting his spoon.
She hesitated. The heat from the soup rose, along with her pulse. If she said nothing, Nic would drag it out of her. He always did.
“It’s ... a complicated case.”
“Complicated how?” her father pressed, curiosity sharp.
Her throat tightened. Don’t say it. Not here. Not with Abuela listening. But the silence at the table stretched, and with every second it felt more dishonest.
Finally, she exhaled. “Remember that detective who shot the Venezuelan suspect a few months back?”
The clatter of cutlery stilled. Even the little ones seemed to fall quiet, as if the whole house had been holding its breath. Of course they remembered. Everyone in their community did.
She stared at her bowl, wishing she could sink into it. “My firm ... is consulting with his counsel. And the police union.”
Her words dropped like a stone in the middle of the table.
Her mother’s wooden spoon stilled mid-stir. She turned slowly, her face thunderous. “Isabela, why would your firm help that man?” Her voice cracked, equal parts outrage and heartbreak.
“Because everyone is innocent until proven guilty,” Izzy replied, already bracing herself. “There’s a lot the public doesn’t know about the suspect. Plus, I’m only assisting Marcus on some background issues. I have little to do with the actual case.” The lie burned on her tongue.
Her father slammed his spoon down hard enough to rattle the bowls. “That’s not good enough. The whole city knows who he is. I don’t want my daughter’s name tied to his.”
“Papá,” she said tightly, “you don’t know him.”
Nic leaned back in his chair, brows drawn together. He wasn’t yelling, but his voice carried a weight that cut sharper than their parents’ outrage. “That’s exactly the point, Iz. You don’t know him either. And from everything we do know, he’s poison.”
Her stomach twisted. He’s right. I don’t know him.
So why am I defending him? She could still see those blue eyes in her mind.
They were cold, yes, but layered with something else.
Something like anger, pain, and regret. For one dangerous second, she’d wondered if the headlines had it wrong.
And that thought alone made her feel like a traitor.
Abuela crossed herself, muttering something under her breath about shame and bad omens.
The silence stretched, thick and stifling. Her soup was going cold, but she couldn’t force another spoonful of her favorite meal down if she tried. The weight of their disappointment pressed on her chest like a stone.
Then, mercifully, the sound of wailing cut through the tension. Her youngest nephew Levi tumbled into the room crying over a fresh rug burn. Miles, the classic middle child, stood behind his brother with a sneaky smile, waving the battered cardboard sword like a trophy.
Chaos exploded, pulling her parents’ attention instantly. Isabela exhaled, shoulders sagging, grateful for the reprieve, but the guilt still gnawed at her. She’d just stood up against her family, her community, for a man she didn’t even trust. She couldn’t even explain why.
Tiny voices interrupted her thoughts. Pushing her internal conflict to the back of her mind for now.
“Dad! Miles pushed me,” Levi pouted adorably, holding his arm up for Nic to inspect.
Sometimes Isabela really felt for her brother.
Nic did his best to look like he had it all together, but she knew it couldn’t be easy raising three rowdy boys on his own.
She hadn’t expected to fall so completely in love with her nephews after moving back, but they’d quickly become the bright spot in her hectic world.
After his ex-wife’s death, Nic moved closer to their parents, a decision that made sense for everyone.
He was a therapist who specialized in working with veterans, a natural fit given his own Navy background.
He’d served for over a decade, earning his degree during his time in uniform, but the demands of single fatherhood made stability a priority.
Being near family gave him the support he needed, and their parents absolutely doted on the boys.
As the oldest of the four Cruz siblings, Nic was protective and steady, yet somehow the biggest tease of the bunch.
As the youngest, Isabela had always shared a special bond with him.
Now that she was back home, he’d wasted no time in sliding back into big brother mode, both infuriating and comforting her in equal measure.
Tuning out the argument about who started it, she focused on her soup.
It may be lukewarm, but the spicy broth still burned away the frustration in her chest. By the time dinner was winding down, her mood had softened.
She still had a mountain of work waiting.
Still had Christopher Macklin’s glare and clipped responses bouncing around her brain. But the comfort of home helped.
Maybe with the right number of margaritas this weekend, she might forget about him. At least for a little while.