Gemotions

The photograph sat on his desk, a framed portrait of them both, grinning at the camera after a particularly successful case. He glared at it. He'd admired his mentor for his cunning, his intuition, his unwavering dedication. Now, a simple note, a hasty departure, and that was it?

He stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, the acrid smell stinging his nostrils. He was a professional. He understood that people moved on. But a damn phone call, a simple conversation, would have been nice. The lack of courtesy stung more than the desertion.

He shoved the photograph into a drawer, the glass clicking against the wood. He could handle this. He would. He turned back to his files, the cold reality of his solitary pursuit settling upon his shoulders.