Marlowe
Reid traced the next-of-kin listing to a woman named Carol Whitfield, still living in the same small northern town the old prospect record had vaguely referenced, and I found myself staring at the address for a long while before actually working up the nerve to call the number Reid had managed to find alongside it.
"You don't have to be the one who calls," King said, watching me hesitate over the phone. "I could do it. Or Bear, given his own connection to this."
"No. I need to be the one." I met his eyes, understanding my own resolve mattered here in a way that delegating wouldn't properly honor. "This is about my father. I need to be the one who actually asks the questions, even if it's uncomfortable."
He nodded, respecting the decision, and I dialed before I could talk myself
