Marlowe
I found Reid in the garage the following morning, and the question sitting behind my teeth felt considerably heavier than anything I'd asked him since the day I finally confronted him about the note in my boot.
"Tell me exactly how you found that photograph," I said, no preamble. "Word for word. Don't leave anything out this time."
Reid's hands stilled over the engine he'd been working on, and something careful crossed his face — not quite guilt, but close enough to it that my stomach dropped before he'd said a single word.
"I found it in the wounded rider's discarded gear," he said, slow, like he was choosing each word with more caution than usual. "That part's true."
"But."
"But I didn't just stumble across it." He set down his tools, finally meeting my eyes. "Someone told
