The murder scene is tense. Jack leans against the doorway, arms crossed, as Ezra kneels near the victim, examining the napkin clutched in their hand.
Ezra: “Poetry. Romantic, isn’t it?” Jack: “Romantic? It’s evidence. Care to focus?” Ezra smirks, holding it up. Ezra: “Handwritten. Think our mystery poet knows something?” Jack’s eyes narrow. “If they’re guilty, I’ll find out. My way.”
Comments
0No comments yet.