Marlowe
Marla found Dorian at the kitchen table with a half-empty glass and a question already forming on his lips, and stepped between him and it before either of us understood why she'd bothered.
"Why's the club President asking special favors for our nephew," Dorian said, not quite steady, the words carrying the particular weight of something he'd been turning over for days. "Heard it from three different men now. Says he's never seen a President take that kind of personal interest in a prospect before."
"Probably because the boy's good at his job." Marla didn't look up from the dishes, voice flat, final. "Silas's kid inherited something useful, for once. Leave it alone, Dorian."
"I'm not leaving it alone. Something's not right about it."
"There's nothing not right about it." She s
