Exposure.
The word sounded cold and clinical — nothing like the warm, energetic person Danny had been. Danny, who never met a stranger he couldn’t make laugh. Danny, who had been planning to propose to his girlfriend Sarah next month. Danny, who was supposed to help me paint my kitchen this weekend.
“What circumstances?” Rachel asked when I couldn’t bring myself to speak.
Detective Morrison pulled several photographs from the folder and placed them carefully on the coffee table, face down.
“Your brother was found about two miles from a hunting cabin owned by a man named Marcus Webb,” he said. “Does that name mean anything to you?”
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