For all the differences in culture, I feel exactly like I might back home: uncomfortable, irritable, wanting to leave, and yet pressured to sit still. Words line up in my mouth and fall apart. No sense guessing.

She opens the notebook. “First, just to—”

The door creaks. “Detective Santos?”

“Yes?”

“Captain would like a word.”

“I’m about to—” She catches herself. “Can it wait?”

“Captain said right away.”

She turns and makes a small apology with her hands. “One minute lang, sir. Coffee? Water?”

“I’m fine.”

She leaves the notebook on the table, closed. I don’t touch it. The name pressed in ballpoint on the front catches the light—A. Alvarez—and something inside me slams a fist on a bell.

Alvarez. My ex in the States—Jaclyn Alvarez. My heart lifts into my throat; palms go damp. The familiarity in Thea’s eyes blooms into recognition I don’t want. Sisters? Cousins? Whatever it is, it’s too close. Five years is a long time until it isn’t.

The door flies open and I jump.

“Sorry,” I say, a nervous laugh escaping.

“Got you,” Detective Santos says, smiling, but I can’t make my face obey. My gaze skates to the corner camera, to the tiny lens above the board. It’s the first moment I’m sure: whatever this is, it’s not casual anymore. And whatever they want from me, they’re already watching for it.

“I’m sorry,” I begin, “but how did you know I’d arrived in the Philippines? I mean, at the airport I thought you might be my Grab driver.” Another nervous chuckle; my face doesn’t want to play along.

Ah—about that,” she says, pulling out her phone. She opens Instagram and shows me a profile. I recognize it instantly—someone I’d messaged before the trip —Cynthia Sanchez. Different photos, different captions. “Tools of the trade,” she says, almost apologetic. “We typically contact travelers through a verified community-liaison account—it’s less alarming than a badge in your DMs. In your case, I was the one behind those messages. I should have led with my real name—my mistake.” She gestures to the card and badge I snapped earlier, now lying on the table beside her folder. “You already have my details. From here, everything is official and on the record. If you’d prefer a different officer, or want our liaison to follow up instead, say the word.”

Heat climbs my neck. I try to replay every line with “Cynthia” and come up blank. “I see.” I lean back. “Are you going to tell me what this is about? You’ve gone to a lot of effort.”

“I’m trying to untangle a story, and you might help,” she says, her voice steady.

I can’t help a quick smile that doesn’t last. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

She leans back and studies me the way a tailor sizes cloth—quick, exact, without malice. “Don’t you know why you’re here?”

“No. I honestly have no idea.”

“You haven’t figured it out yet?”

My mind races in a dozen directions. This feels like a game I’m not built for—every answer wrong in a different way. I don’t want to look evasive. I’m not hiding anything. I keep my voice even.

“I noticed the name on your notebook. A. Alvarez. But you introduced yourself as Althea Santos.”

“Santos is my married name.”

“I see.” Her gaze lingers, expectant.

“Does this have anything to do with my ex?”

“So you do know why you’re here.” More statement than question.

“I can’t say that I do. I haven’t seen or talked to Jackie in over five years. Did something happen?”

She studies me closely. “She’s my sister,” she says. “And two months ago, she was murdered.”