Isabella's POV
The café was too ordinary for a conversation like this. Plastic tables, burnt coffee smell, the low hiss of an espresso machine that hadn't been cleaned in years. I'd expected shadows and whispers, something fitting the weight of what Detective Marlowe had hinted. Instead, he sat by the window like a man waiting for a train, a newspaper folded neatly in front of him.
I slid into the chair opposite. "Detective."
His eyes lifted. Sharp, tired eyes. The kind that had seen more than they wanted to but couldn't forget. He didn't bother with pleasantries.
"You look like your father when you walk into a room," he said. "He had that same… presence. People noticed him whether they wanted to or not."
"Spare me the nostalgia," I said, folding my arms. "You said you had information. Let's hear it."
For a moment, he just studied me, as if weighing how much truth I could handle. Then he pulled a thin folder from his coat and slid it across the table.
