That’s how most important investigations begin in my home. I’m Victoria, and I’ve learned that when a thirteen-year-old claims his room is clean, it usually means there’s a narrow walkway to his bed.
I entered with a laundry basket on my hip. Clothes lay beside the hamper, which apparently functioned more as a suggestion than an actual destination.
Then I noticed the stand beside Alejandro’s desk.
Empty.
I put the basket down and checked behind his chair, though guitars rarely crawl behind furniture by themselves. I searched the closet, then downstairs, convincing myself he’d taken it somewhere to practice.
His guitar case was missing, too.
The guitar had been his birthday present, the priciest gift we’d ever bought him. We’d discussed its cost repeatedly before purchasing it, whispering as parents do when trying to preserve a surprise.
Alejandro never treated it like an expensive possession adults owed him. To him, it was something extraordinary that had somehow been placed in his care.
