It was spring at the Sharpe family home, so Isabel Sharpe had the windows open as she cooked. Music was playing, and she sang along under her breath, even dancing a little, enough to make her skirt sway above her smooth legs. She was almost 33 but had gotten carded just earlier that day buying wine for the sauce she was making, and as always it put her in a good mood.<br/><br/>Soon her husband Alfons would be home, and that also contributed to her good mood. He never failed to make her smile. And then there was her daughter Trina, recently 16. She was beautiful, quiet, and intelligent, a bit of a bookworm as Isabel had been at her age. Isabel was lucky to have such a wonderful family, and lucky that Alfons has so willing adopted her daughter as his own, though by blood she was the child of her previous husband—a young marriage that hadn't lasted.<br/><br/>“Trina,” she called, and then, in case her daughter had headphones on as she sometimes did, she called again a little louder. “Trina!”