The Photo
The sun was slowly going down outside. An array of colors painted the sky. I tapped the back of my lavender-blue pen, decorated with a cute charm of Snorlax.
I bit my lower lip, staring at the papers scattered in front of me.
Among the countless papers was the printed picture of the woman we interviewed today. Her dark brown hair almost appeared black in the photo. Her messy single braid hair reached past her shoulder. The sunken brown eyes appeared nearly black in the photo. Staring back at me.
What else are those eyes hiding…?
Guilt?
She should carry it after what she'd done to those two innocent people.
It was a picture from this year's annual photo of the staff at Delton Media.
Zia.
Zia.
Zia White.
The door creaked shut behind me as I left, a black file tucked under my arm—four days' worth of interviews inside.
Silence blew through the empty office.
On top of the desk, the picture of Zia—scribbled over with ink in anger and force.
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