I’ve been fascinated by forensic science since I was a teenager growing up in New York. Something about the way science and justice intersect—the precision, the truth-seeking, the ability to reconstruct what others try to hide—captured me early on. That fascination never faded. It’s why I’m now majoring in forensic science, even while working full time, writing full time, and raising four children.

It’s not easy. Balancing school, work, motherhood, and a creative career is exhausting. But when you’re passionate about something, motivation takes over. You stop asking how you’ll manage and start focusing on why you must.

For me, that “why” became painfully clear the day my brother, Nathan Otero, was murdered.

Nathan was 27 years old. He was shot twice in the back of the head on a dark, empty road in Worcester, Massachusetts. No cameras. No witnesses. No justice. A coward set him up and took his life. And the killer was never found.

That kind of loss doesn’t just break you—it changes you. It forces you to confront the fragility of life and the failures of the system. It made me realize I couldn’t just be curious about forensic science anymore. I had to commit to it.

So I went back to school. First, I studied legal secretary work. Then I moved into paralegal studies, learning how to navigate the law and research it thoroughly. But the pull toward forensic science was stronger than ever. I shifted my focus again—this time with clarity and conviction.

I write forensic crime novels because I believe in truth. I believe in justice. And I believe in giving voice to the silenced. My stories are layered with emotional realism, scientific detail, and the kind of psychological depth that comes from living through trauma. They’re not just entertainment. They’re my way of honoring Nathan. Of channeling grief into something that might one day help others.

Writing helps me process what the world couldn’t explain. It helps me imagine the justice we never received. And it helps me stay grounded in the belief that truth matters—even when it’s buried deep.

This isn’t just a genre for me. It’s personal. It’s purpose-driven. And it’s proof that even in the darkest moments, we can choose to create something meaningful.