“He was nineteen. Scared. Playing gangster for his father. If he had dropped the gun, he would have lived. He’d be thirty-four now. Maybe married. Maybe with kids.”
“Marcus blamed you.”
“Marcus blamed me for doing my job.”
Dad’s voice broke.
“Internal Affairs cleared it. Every witness said Alexander fired first. None of that mattered to Marcus.”
Carter stepped closer.
“After Alexander died, David disappeared. We thought he went underground with Marcus. What actually happened was worse. Marcus sent him to Europe. For twelve years he was conditioned, trained, shaped into a weapon.”
The weight of that settled slowly and horribly.
David at twenty-one. Grieving. Angry. Vulnerable.
David being turned into this.
“But here’s what matters now,” Carter said. “In the last six months, since we confirmed David’s identity, he has had at least three clear opportunities to kill you.”
My stomach clenched.
“Three?”
“Four weeks ago, Zilker Park. You went jogging at six a.m. alone. He knew your route. He did nothing.”
He clicked a file.
