Marcus Webb was smaller than I’d expected.
I’d built a picture in my head — surveillance photographers occupied a specific imaginative space, something between detective and ghost — and the real Marcus Webb was a slight man in his forties with a tired face and a canvas bag he kept on his lap the whole time, holding it the way people hold things they’ve been waiting to put down.
The coffee shop was chosen for its noise and its lack of cameras near the corner table. Tessa sat to my left. Marty sat across from Webb like a man who had outlasted many difficult conversations and expected to outlast this one too.
I’d been awake since five. I’d read the contact log summary Tessa sent me at six-thirty and then sat in my car outside the coffee shop for twenty minutes before going in, because I ne
