"What do you mean it wasn't you," I said.
Dorian was already standing, already moving toward the study, and I followed him because the alternative was sitting in the kitchen with the cold spreading through my chest. My mother followed too, limping, Marco appeared in the doorway with his phone still in his hand and one look at Dorian's face made him fall in step without asking why.
"The Edinburgh photograph," Dorian said, pulling open the desk drawer where the photographs had been, the ones my mother had found, spreading them across the desk with quick precise movements until he found it — me, eighteen months ago, with the green jacket in that coffee shop, with March, Edinburgh in black ink written on the back. "I told you I'd had someone watching you since you were seventeen. That's true
