Damian's Pov
I read that message four times before I trusted myself to show it to Reyes, and each time the same question circled back on itself without landing anywhere solid. Ask her whose wedding it actually was.
"We need her found tonight," I said. "Not tomorrow. Tonight, before whoever's sending these messages decides we've earned another piece of this before we're ready for it."
We rode back through the industrial district at a pace that had nothing careful left in it, and I spent the whole ride turning the photograph over in my mind, my father younger than I'd ever known him, Marcus Cross beside him, and a woman with Marguerite's exact jaw, decades softer, standing in a dress that made the occasion unmistakable even without a caption. A wedding. Somebody's wedding, at an estate th
