Elena did not ask for permission before taking over the room.
That was how I knew she was good.
Panic makes people loud. Competence makes them specific.
She set her phone on the table, screen down, and opened the folder again as if Auston Wilde had not just tried to turn my marriage into a weapon before lunch. Silas remained by the window. He had gone still in a way that made stillness feel less like absence and more like containment.
"Who has it?" he asked.
"Marrow," Elena said.
I knew the name. Everyone in Los Angeles knew the name, even people who pretended not to. Marrow was not a tabloid, which made it worse. It was one of those entertainment sites that had learned to dress appetite in clean fonts and call speculation reporting if the nouns were expensive enough.
"Timing?" Sila
