Marlowe
I almost told him. Sitting there on that ridge with the valley dark below us and his half-confession still hanging in the air, I felt the whole truth rise up in my throat, ready to spill out the same way his had.
*My father died the same way you're describing. Reaper. Silas Calloway. Maybe we're grieving the same night.*
I didn't say it. I caught myself at the last second, throat tight, and swallowed the words back down instead, terrified of what I'd lose if the theory forming in my chest turned out to be wrong — or worse, turned out to be right, and unraveled every careful thing I'd built here in one reckless sentence.
"You went quiet," King said, watching me.
"Just thinking."
"About?"
"Nothing important." The lie came out smoother than I wanted it to, and something in his
