The smell hit first.
Fresh coffee. Bacon. Butter. Toasted tortillas. Garlic sizzling in oil.
Then the sound. Laughter. Salsa music. The rhythmic clang of spatulas against cast iron.
Norma flung open Madeline’s bedroom door without a hint of shame. “Up and at ‘em, sugar. Time to carb-load for crime.”
Madeline groaned, rolling deeper under her blush satin comforter. “No, thank you. Crime can wait. I’m busy enjoying this moment being lazy for once.”
Norma yanked the covers off in one smooth, merciless motion. “Not optional.”
She pivoted, kicked Maggie’s door open next. “Rise and shine, hellspawn. Jorge made chilaquiles.”
Maggie shot straight up like she’d been hit with a defibrillator. “Say less.”
Norma marched to Claire’s door, flicked the lights on, and knocked exactly once—for the
