Amaya had been looking for her mother for twenty minutes.
The house was too large for three people — an ostentatious display of her stepfather's wealth that still made her feel like a guest three years after he'd married her mother.
Marble floors, cathedral ceilings, rooms that swallowed sound and secrets. She'd checked the kitchen, the sunroom, the garage. Her mother's phone had gone straight to voicemail. The only place left was the master wing.
She took the stairs two at a time, her bare feet silent on the polished wood, her cutoff denim shorts riding high on her thighs.
It was Saturday morning, barely past ten, and she'd expected the house to be empty — her mother had mentioned errands, her stepfather had left for the gym at dawn.
The bedroom door was closed but not locked, and
