Marcus' POV
I never thought I would hate the sound of my own name. But when David said it, the way he always said it, like he owned me, like I owed him something unpayable, I felt my fists clench before I could stop them.
"Marcus. Sit down. We need to talk."
His house was a wreck. Half the furniture was gone, sold off or seized. The rest sat under dust sheets like ghosts. He was living in one room now, the study where he had once hidden Clara's adoption records in a locked drawer. Poetic, in a foul way. The room where he had kept her truth prisoner was now the only room he had left.
I did not sit. "I got your message. You said it was urgent."
"It is." David leaned against his empty desk. He looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot. His hands carried a tremor I had never seen before.
