Marlowe
King told me everything that evening, sitting across from me at our kitchen table with the particular careful, deliberate tone I'd learned meant he was bracing himself for my reaction as much as delivering difficult news.
I listened to the whole account — Bear's cousin, the suspicious questions, decades of silent guilt running parallel to Dorian's own — and felt something considerably more complicated than simple grief settle into my chest by the time he finished.
"So there might have actually been someone," I said slowly. "Not just Vance's own intelligence work. Someone inside, or close to inside, who actually fed information about my father's movements."
"Might have been. We don't have proof yet. Just Bear's decades-old suspicion and Dorian's vague, secondhand whispers." King
