2. Ava

5 YearsAgo

Something feels off,like a strange current in the air that's hard to nail down. It's similar to that electric tension before a storm, when the air bristles with potential and lightning is just a heartbeat away. This sensation is elusive but unmistakably there, impossible to shake off. No matter how hard I try to dismiss it, it just creeps closer, sinking beneath my skin and burrowing in like a determined tick on a muggy summer day.

I don't ignore this nagging feeling. Instead, I let it guide me down the hall. With only a few days of summer break left, I will soon head back to college and my dorm room, which I share with Mia and Eloise. My totes, lined up like soldiers by the front door, wait to be packed into Mia's car. Mia, the morning person, contrasts harshly with Eloise and me, the late risers who would happily snooze until noon.

I stealthily step down the stairs of our cozy, two-story house, deliberately hitting the creaky plank that always gives away my presence. The living room, bathed in the evening's soft light, is empty. My mom's chair stands vacant, though her imprint lingers in the fabric, a testament to countless evenings spent there.

"Ava?" Mama's voice, warm and inviting, drifts from the kitchen moments before her smiling face greets me as she moves around the corner.

Relief washes over me when I see her. She's forty-five but doesn't look a day over thirty, always attributing it to good genes. I think it's her love for the kitchen, her haven, that keeps her youthful. She never eats out, and she's been busy cooking enough meals for me to take back to college and cram into our dorm's mini fridge.

"Mama," I greet, feeling the kitchen's cool tiles beneath my feet as I cross the room to kiss her cheek. "What are you up to?" I glance past her and into the kitchen, already aware of the answer. She's in her element, cooking up a storm for us.

"Well, I can't let you head back to college without some homemade food," she replies, picking imaginary lint off my shirt—a gesture full of love and reminiscent of her heritage, something she missed deeply after leaving her home to marry Daddy.

Speaking of Daddy… "Where's Daddy?" It isn't quite dinnertime, and I just woke from a nap.

"Oh, you know your father," she replies with a lighthearted roll of her eyes, drying her hands on her apron before returning to the oven. "Off with the boys." Her tone dips slightly on the last word, her expression conveying a multitude of unsaid thoughts.

One thing is louder than the rest—she disapproves.

"Ah," I reply, understanding her unspoken words, as I slide onto a chair at our quaint dining table. Our house, small but bursting with character, is a cozy haven filled with memories and little touches of both my mother and father. "Poker night."

"He blows through his budget way too quickly," Mama vents, her voice a mix of exasperation and concern as she wipes down the already spotless kitchen counter. "I've already turned my phone off and cut off his access to the accounts." Her hands move with a swift efficiency born from years in the kitchen. "He'd squander all of our savings if I let him, and none of those so-called friends of his have the spine to tell him he's awful at poker."

And yet he still somehow finds the funds to gamble.

Laughter bubbles up from deep within me as I lean back against the cool tiled wall, resting my chin in my hands. "He really does have the worst poker face," I agree.

Mama glances at me over her shoulder, a knowing smile creasing her face. "Looks like you're on your own for dinner tonight," she says hurriedly, then turns back to the stove, her movements a little too forced.

That odd feeling twists in my stomach again, and I swear the air in our cozy, sunlit kitchen feels heavy with unspoken words. She's hiding something. I can tell from the subtle shift in the atmosphere, the way her shoulders tense up, and how she avoids my gaze, focusing intently on cleaning the already immaculate counter.

"Where are you heading?" I ask, a playful edge to my tone as I push off from the wall and move closer. "Finally decide to join the wives at their little gathering while the menfolk play cards?" I tease, knowing full well Mama has an ambivalent relationship with the church wives and their husbands.

I catch her muttering something about them being "racist witches" under her breath, though she uses a harsher term. That's the heart of it—Mama has a deep-seated belief in God, just one, unlike the diverse pantheon revered by the spiritkins. Finding a church she likes, however, is more challenging than finding one Daddy prefers. Daddy adores the church. He's all about the community and their teachings. He also insists that Mama and I attend, though thankfully, college spares me. I almost feel guilty about leaving Mama to socialize with people she can barely tolerate.

I didn't always know she disliked them. Initially, she really tried, but then everything changed when spiritkins stepped out of the proverbial closet at the turn of the century. Mama, then a young girl in love in a new city, found her world turned upside down.

Living in an all-human community and attending an all-human congregation, I thought Mama's views were less lenient than those of her peers, but the opposite is true. Mama often speaks out for their rights, making her an outcast—another reason she despises attending these gatherings. The way the others openly despise spiritkins isn't just harsh, it's extreme. They stand on the edges of their villages and towns, condemning spiritkins as unnatural.

Mama never attends these events, but Daddy does.

They think I don't hear them argue about it, but I do, and it shatters my heart every time.

"Well," Mama says, drying her hands on a worn kitchen towel and turning to face me with a smile that doesn't quite reach her deep, sad brown eyes, "I have to make an appearance tonight." She tosses the towel onto the counter, each movement radiating quiet irritation.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to," I remind her gently, my words floating through the warm kitchen air, but even as I speak, she dismisses them. Her long, dark hair, peppered with strands of gray, frames her face as she waves away my words.

"No, you know that won't do," she replies, her voice laced with resignation. She pulls a small foil pan of tamales from the fridge, and the comforting aroma of home-cooked food fills the air. "Here, so you won't starve."

I nearly roll my eyes, but instead, I smile warmly. "Thanks, Mama."

"So, are you excited about school?" she asks, her eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. "Met any boys?"

I roll my eyes this time, a blush creeping up my cheeks. "No, Mama." I pick at a knot in our old wood dining room table, worn smooth by years of family meals. "I'm focusing on myself. This will be my last year, if all goes well."

"Ah, yes." She beams with pride, her smile lighting up her entire face. "My daughter, the doctor."

"Veterinarian," I correct her, though it's a lost cause. To her, I'll always be a doctor—no matter if I'm tending to humans, spiritkin, or actual animals.

Unfazed, she shoos me away, muttering something in Spanish too softly for me to catch. "Doctor," she insists again. "Your ancestors would be proud."

"I hope so," I reply, my gaze drifting to the living room, where our small ofrenda sits, a tribute to our ancestors who came before us.

"It's your turn to make offerings," she states firmly. "Remember your roots. Now" —she places my dinner in the oven and removes her apron— "pull that out in twenty minutes."

I wrinkle my nose playfully. "Twenty…"

"Ah…" She tugs at a loose strand of my hair affectionately. "Fine. Turn the broiler on and get that cheese crispy."

"That's the only way, Mama." Standing, I wrap my arms around her in a tight hug, feeling the fragile strength of her frame in my embrace.

When did she become so thin?

Pulling away, Mama smiles up at me. Dark circles, like faint shadows, line her eyes, speaking of her exhaustion.

How did I not notice how worn out she is?

"Are you okay?" The words escape me impulsively, but I wouldn't retract them even if I could. My hands linger on her frail shoulders, feeling the delicate bones beneath.

She makes a dismissive, almost musical sound in the back of her throat. "Ava Martinez-Thompson, I am a lady. Of course I am fine," she declares with a flicker of her old, fiery spirit.

I don't believe her, not even for a second. "You'd tell me if you weren't, wouldn't you?" I probe, though deep down, I know the answer. Mama has always believed that her problems are matters to be discussed only with God.

Clearly, I don't share that sentiment.

"Hush now, I need to go," she insists, attempting to step away, but I hold her in place.

On a whim, I embrace her again, savoring the familiar scent of her vanilla perfume tinged with a hint of spice—a unique blend that is quintessentially Mama. Her soft hair brushes against my cheek, a comforting sensation. Her breath, steady and warm against my skin, and the light caress of her fingers on my lower back, are reassuring yet heart-wrenching. When she pulls away, we both tactfully ignore the tears brimming in our eyes. She collects her purse and keys, her movements graceful yet weary, and walks toward the front door.

"Mama," I call out just as her hand grazes the doorknob, "be careful. Something in the air feels unsettling tonight."

She answers with that matronly, enigmatic smile of hers before disappearing into the humid summer night, leaving a trace of her perfume lingering in the air.

Sighing, I turn to the ofrenda, reaching for the gold tequila on the shelf beside it. The tequila, a blatant reminder of the cultural clash in our household, is a bone of contention for Daddy. I've overheard their heated debates about her heritage clashing with his idea of a "proper" home.

It took me years to understand that my father, once my hero, supports the Puritas Umbra, shadowy figures who hunt spiritkins under the guise of vigilantes. They masquerade as heroes, but in reality, they are heartless murderers.

Unscrewing the cap on the tequila, I gaze at the photos of relatives I've never met, their faces frozen in time, witnesses to a past Mama spoke of only in hushed tones. In these silent faces, I see echoes of her life before us, the beliefs she cherishes, and the boundless love she showers upon me and my friends.

She once confided in me that she didn't want to pick sides, that her soul feels forever torn between two worlds. Dad made her relinquish almost everything from her past, except for this altar.

Pouring tequila into a glass in the center of the table, I surround it with others filled with water, paying homage to her grandparents, aunties, and uncles who grace the white cloth-covered table with their solemn visages.

"Watch over her tonight," I whisper to the silent assembly, my voice laced with uncertainty and secret hope. I replace the tequila and turn off the oven timer. The rich aroma of tamales wafts through the kitchen, stirring a pang of hunger.

My gaze lingers on the table, drawn in by an inexplicable allure, as if it whispers secrets just beyond my grasp.

Shaking off the feeling, I switch the oven to broil and grab two plates, deciding to share my meal with the spirits. It's a gesture that feels right, one that Mama would appreciate.

I wish I realized the depths of Mama's sacrifices sooner, the pain she masked behind her resilient smile. As a child, I was blissfully unaware—a sign, Mama would say, of her success as a parent. The adult me questions the cost of such concealment.

The night drifts by in a blur, marked only by the repeated chime of the stove timer. Dinner is a solitary affair—a plate for me and one for the spirits. College life is a whirlwind of noise and activity, but here, in the quiet of our home, I find a moment of peace. I worked relentlessly to finish grad school a year early, so I should revel in this final year, yet a nagging feeling in my gut whispers that not everything is as it should be. With that unsettling thought, I find myself dozing off in Dad's recliner with an old movie flickering on the TV screen, casting shadows in the dimly lit room.

Hours later, a knock echoes through the silent house, startling me awake from a restless doze. I sit up, disheveled, rubbing the remnants of sleep from my eyes. The last twenty-four hours have been a blur of fitful naps and uneasy dreams, leaving me disoriented and adrift between slumber and wakefulness.

Reaching out, I fumble for the remote, my fingers brushing against the cool, smooth surface before I mute the television. Stray beams of light, bold and intrusive, pierce through the gaps in the curtains, casting long shadows across the room and creating an illusion of midday rather than predawn stillness.

"Daddy?" I call out, my voice barely above a whisper as my gaze fixes on the door, a portal to unknown news that I'm not sure I'm ready to face. A sense of unease churns in my stomach, and a cold shiver races up my spine. "Dad?" My voice grows louder, more insistent, yet the house remains eerily silent.

No answer.

A glass tumbles off the side table next to me, shattering against the hardwood floor with a sharp, jarring sound. I jerk my head toward the noise, my heart racing. The sight of the broken glass from the ancestral table sends a sharp pang of foreboding through me.

Someone has died.

This knowledge settles in my bones with chilling certainty. My breathing becomes ragged, and fear gnaws at the edges of my composure.

I don't want to answer that door, yet I find myself compelled to, almost as if drawn by an unseen force. My hand trembles as it reaches for the doorknob, the same one my mama touched only hours ago in what now feels like a different lifetime.

Swallowing hard, I pull the door open to reveal two human police officers standing in the dim porch light, their faces etched with grim resignation. One has dark hair cropped close to his head, giving him a no-nonsense appearance, while the other sports a mop of red hair, his eyes a soft shade of blue.

"We're looking for Christopher Thompson," the redhead says, his attempt at a comforting smile falling flat under the weight of the hour.

I stand frozen and speechless as I glance at their cruiser parked in the empty driveway. "D-Daddy isn't home," I stammer out, the question of his absence echoing ominously in my mind.

The officers exchange a silent, meaningful glance. One seems to chew on his inner thoughts, while the other shakes his head, a silent conversation passing between them. In that moment, they seem less like ordinary humans and more like characters out of the stories I grew up reading.

"Is something wrong?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, even though the answer already claws at the edges of my consciousness.

"Well, miss, we would really appreciate it if you could try to reach your father for us," the dark-haired officer, whose badge identifies him as Miller, says kindly.

"Yeah, sure," I reply, slipping my hand into my back pocket for my phone, but then, headlights sweep into our quiet cul-de-sac. I pause and hold my breath, hoping against hope it's Mama returning.

As the beat-up pickup truck pulls into the driveway, though, my heart sinks. It's Daddy. He emerges from the vehicle, his frame tall and imposing. He's a man who has always been larger than life in my eyes. My friends often say he's intimidating, with his lanky frame towering at six feet, and his eyes a piercing, crystalline blue that often gives him an air of a brooding anti-hero.

He's always been my rock, my unwavering supporter, but now, watching him step out of the truck with a casualness that belies the gravity of the situation, I see the truth in Mia and Eloise's words.

My father looks terrifying.

He glances at the officers with a look of annoyance, reaching into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, a habit that's always been a bone of contention between him and Mama.

"Go inside, Ava," he commands, striking a match to light his cigarette.

I usually comply without question, but tonight, as he faces the officers with a hardened expression, I feel an invisible hand rest gently on my shoulder, grounding me.

"No," I whisper, my voice laced with defiance. "What's happening?" I ask, standing my ground.

"Do you really want to know, Ava?" he counters, taking a long drag. His gaze finally meets mine, holding a challenge.

The hand on my shoulder gives a reassuring squeeze, and I nod, steeling myself for whatever comes next.

With a sympathetic look, Officer Miller speaks up. "Christopher Thompson, we need you to accompany us."

"Why?" Dad's tone is flat, defiant, as his gaze remains locked with mine, daring me to back down.

I stand my ground, feeling a surge of determination.

I know it. Even before they say the words, I know.

"Sir, we need you to come with us," Miller repeats, glancing at me with a hint of sorrow. "We need you to identify the body of Isabel Martinez-Thompson."

I close my eyes, feeling the hand on my shoulder slowly fade away, leaving me to face reality alone. Mama.