Marlowe
Grant arrived looking considerably worse than his voice on the phone had suggested, hair disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly, eyes red-rimmed in a way that told me whatever had happened had genuinely wrecked him.
"Sit," I said, guiding him toward the kitchen table. "Tell me everything."
He dropped into the chair heavily, and I watched him gather himself for a long moment before the words finally started spilling out, faster and more disorganized than his usual measured speech typically allowed.
"Priya found out. About my past. About threatening to expose you, all of it — the worst version of who I used to be." His voice caught. "Not from me. That's the part that's killing me, Marlowe. Someone else told her, and I don't even know who, and now she's
