Mrs. Collins’s knock was a polite metronome on the doorframe. “Dr. Hale? Detective Bennett to see you.”
Ethan looked up from the half-sorted stack of case notes and the thin sheen of coffee cooling beside them. For an instant he saw his own reflection in the glass—drawn, older—and then Marcus filled the doorway, rain freckling the shoulders of his coat.
“Marcus,” Ethan said, forcing calm. “Come in.”
Bennett stepped inside without preamble, shut the door, and set a single sheet of paper on the desk between them, faceup. The blue ribbon of the court seal cut through the room like a siren.
“Now you can talk,” he said.
Something in Ethan gave way—no sound, just the sense of a load settling. He eased back into his chair, the leather releasing a tired sigh. “How did you get here?” His voice
