At the academy graduation, my father scoffed under his breath, “Useless. She’ll quit like she always does.” I stood perfectly still at attention. Then Drill Sergeant Frey halted the ceremony, turned toward me, and raised his hand in a sharp salute. “Major,” he said, voice carrying across the field. “On extended assignment.” My father’s face drained of color.

His testimony had once closed a leak. His silence had saved lives. He was not supposed to know me.

But apparently, he might. “If anything feels wrong,” Sloan said, “you leave.” “My family will ask questions.”

“Evelyn,” she said, “your family has survived seven years without answers.” That should have made it easier.

It didn’t. Dad picked me up at the airport because he said rideshares were for people who enjoyed danger.

He looked older. Not weak, never that. But older in hidden ways. His hair had thinned. His hand rested carefully on the steering wheel to protect the wrist he had once fractured and refused to treat.

He looked me over.

“That all you brought?” “Yes.” He opened the trunk. “Figures.”

No hug. No welcome home. Caleb sat in the passenger seat. He turned and grinned.