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her own choices.
The next morning, I told Derek.
He was making coffee, still in sweatpants, his hair flattened on one side from the three hours of sleep he had managed on the couch near Emma.
“I reported Vanessa to her company,” I said.
He turned slowly.
“What?”
I explained. The photos. The sample theft. The hotline.
He stood there with the coffee pot in continue reading …
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