Marlowe
I stood there staring at my own full name in a stranger's careful handwriting, feeling the whole warm, easy day we'd just shared collapse into something considerably colder in the space of a single sentence.
"He knows," I said, voice unsteady. "Not suspects. Knows. My actual name, King."
King took the note from my hands, reading it twice, his expression shifting from shock into something colder and more controlled than I'd ever seen on him — the particular quiet fury that had made Dutch shake weeks ago, except magnified now by a threat that struck considerably closer to everything he'd sworn to protect.
"How long," I said. "How long has he known?"
"Don't know." His jaw was tight enough that the words came out clipped, precise. "Doesn't matter how long. Matters that he's tellin
