His name was James Carver.
Not Thomas Carver — no relation to the man who had betrayed the organization in winter. James Carver was fifty-three, grey-haired, with the specific bearing of someone who had spent a long time doing something difficult and had recently decided that the difficulty was no longer worth the cost.
He had known Daniel.
Not peripherally — well. He had been, Marco’s investigation revealed, one of Daniel’s closest friends from before Luca’s world had fully claimed both their lives. They had gone to school together, had remained close through their twenties, had been the kind of friends who could go months without speaking and pick up exactly where they’d left off.
He had been in the city on the night Daniel died. He had seen something.
He had not come forward at the
