Marlowe
Dorian had been discharged from the hospital only days earlier, still weak but considerably more stable, and I found him in his garden — the same garden where he'd collapsed, twice now, the particular irony of the location not lost on me as I approached with King close beside me.
"You have news," he said, reading our expressions immediately. "About the investigation."
"We found Whitfield's notebook," I said, settling onto the bench beside him carefully, mindful of his still-fragile condition. "Confirmation, in his own writing, that he sold information about the Ridge Pass route to Blackfang. Not suspicion anymore, Dorian. Confirmed fact."
He absorbed this slowly, his weathered face carrying an expression considerably more complicated than I'd anticipated — not just grief, but s
