Zoe
Reyes' sister lived in a small yellow house at the edge of a quiet neighborhood, the kind of place that looked like it belonged to someone who'd spent decades trying to build an ordinary life around an extraordinary loss. Her name was Marisol, and she opened the door with the wary caution of someone who'd learned the hard way not to trust easily, her eyes moving over the four of us gathered on her porch before settling, curiously, on me.
"You're Samuel's daughter," she said, not quite a question.
"You knew my father?"
"Not well. Met him twice, maybe three times, a long time ago." She stepped back, holding the door open. "You have his eyes. Come in, all of you. Might as well get this over with."
Her living room was small and tidy, photographs of what I assumed was her brother scatt
