Marlowe
I stared at the roster, certain I'd misread it, certain the name printed there in plain, unambiguous ink couldn't actually be correct.
*Cricket.*
The same man who'd run a ridiculous betting pool on King's feelings for me since the very first week. The same man who'd stood unofficial guard outside the medical tent during King's fever, who'd embarrassed himself on the dance floor at Nova's celebration, who'd made me laugh more times over these past months than I could easily count.
"That can't be right," I said, though even as I said it, uncertainty crept in at the edges. "Cricket wouldn't—"
"I don't want to believe it either," Bear said, grim. "But the dates don't lie, Marlowe. Every single flagged discrepancy lines up with a shift he was personally responsible for logistics on
