“What does this even mean?”
The words slipped out, raw and jagged. I stared at the photograph again. And again. The image didn’t magically make more sense the longer I burned holes into it with my eyes. A woman. A baby. A briefcase. That was it. No note, no explanation, no name. Just a piece of history sitting on my desk, delivered like a ticking bomb disguised as morning mail.
My stomach churned. I flipped the photo over, hoping for a clue. A date, a scrawl, anything. But I found nothing.
“Reina?”
I looked up. Mia was standing two desks away, coffee cup halfway to her lips, her brows knit in concern. “You okay?”
I held up the photo. “Did you see who left this on my desk?”
She squinted at it, leaning in. “No. Why?”
“You’re sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
Not helpful. I stood up, the chair
