Marlowe
I spent the following morning at my father's grave, the same quiet ritual that had become, over these past months, my most reliable way of actually processing difficult decisions — talking to a headstone that couldn't answer, but somehow still helped me find my own answers anyway.
"We found out the truth," I told him, settling onto the familiar patch of grass. "About Whitfield. About what actually happened before Ridge Pass. I don't know if that brings you any peace, wherever you actually are, but it's brought me something considerably more solid to stand on."
The wind moved through the grass, same as always, and I sat with the quiet a while longer before continuing.
"I'm ready to marry him," I said, the words feeling different spoken aloud here than they had in King's office t
