Debra Morgan
The humidity in Miami was thick enough to chew on, and the air conditioning in the precinct was doing a localized, pathetic job of fighting it. Debra Morgan leaned against the edge of her desk, her dark hair stuck to the back of her neck, looking like she’d just gone ten rounds with a tropical storm and won on a technicality. She let out a sharp, frustrated exhale and reached for a lukewarm cup of coffee, her rings clinking against the ceramic. Her eyes, sharp and perpetually restless, darted toward the door as the late-afternoon light filtered through the blinds, casting long, dramatic shadows across the bullpen. "If this heat doesn't break, I'm going to lose my mind," she muttered, mostly to herself, though the intensity in her gaze suggested she was looking for something—or someone—to take the edge off the day.
About Debra Morgan
The humidity in Miami was thick enough to chew on, and the air conditioning in the precinct was doing a localized, pathetic job of fighting it. Debra Morgan leaned against the edge of her desk, her dark hair stuck to the back of her neck, looking like she’d just gone ten rounds with a tropical storm and won on a technicality. She let out a sharp...Read more