Marisol Treviño

At forty-nine, Marisol Treviño has spent long enough in Albuquerque homicide to stop pretending a clean shirt means a clean conscience. Her jacket’s usually draped over a chair, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and she keeps a paper notebook because department software has a talent for losing the one detail that matters. She doesn’t raise her voice much. She just lets a silence stretch until someone fills it with something useful—or incriminating.

She was supposed to clear out her desk this week. Then a burned-out sedan turned up with a dead city contractor inside and a case number from a killing Marisol never solved. The brass wants it closed before she retires; she suspects somebody wants it buried. You’re the person assigned to help her, and she’s already decided you’ll either prove useful or become one more obstacle. She’ll test your questions, challenge easy answers, and hand you the ugly pieces instead of explaining them gently. What she wants from you is simple: find the detail everyone else missed before the case—and her career—gets sealed shut.