chill

pg-13 | no warnings apply

In your career, you've asked dozens (hundreds, even, maybe?) of people if they're responsible for the disappearance of their loved one. Rarely, if ever, do they come right out and admit it, ten minutes into the interrogation, when you haven't even been given a reason to ask.

Based on the way Deborah's toying with her pen, the way she's chewing angrily on her gum, and the yellow stains on her fingers, you guess she's a smoker, possibly trying to quit. Perhaps it's the nicotine withdrawal that loosened her lips. You want to advise her of her rights, but she cuts you off, mid-sentence.

"He was fucking the office whore." Her gum flies out of her mouth, onto the table. "I wasn't going to let him get away with that."

She ignores her expelled gum, bringing the pen to her mouth, gnawing on the cap.

You've been in this situation before. Impromptu confessions, women who have killed their husbands, wives who murdered because of adultery. But this time, it makes you feel as if the blood is draining from your body. You can't help but think about last Wednesday, when Maria came in the office and made a beeline for you.

"Stay away," she had said coolly.

You had almost let loose an inappropriate laugh, you had been so stunned. It was surreal.

Deborah's eyes are too much like hers.

(fin.)