Only my mother, Margaret, and my younger brother, Caleb, watching me too closely.
“Where is my son?” I asked.
“He survived,” Mother replied. “Barely. Emily was careless.”
Caleb leaned against the fireplace, holding a glass of whiskey.
“She always made everything dramatic,” he said.
My hands shook as I reached for Emily.
I had spent eleven months in dangerous places, trained to notice the smallest details others missed.
And everything in that room felt staged.
Emily’s right hand was clenched against her hip.
“What is she holding?” I asked.
Mother’s face changed.
It lasted less than a second.
But I saw it.
“Nothing,” she said sharply. “Leave her dignity intact.”
I bent closer to the casket.
Mother grabbed my arm.
“Daniel, stop.”
I looked at her hand on my sleeve.
Then into her eyes.
“Take your hand off me.”
She obeyed.
Emily’s fingers were tight, but not impossible to move.
Beneath her nails were small crescent marks, as though she had fought to keep her fist closed.
I gently loosened her thumb.
A small black memory card slid into my palm.
Mother went pale.
Caleb’s glass stopped halfway to his mouth.
“What is that?” he demanded.
I closed my fist around it.
“You tell me.”
Mother recovered first.
“Probably something from her phone,” she said. “She recorded everything. P.r.e.g.n.a.n.c.y made her anxious.”
Upstairs, the baby cried again.
I straightened and forced my face to stay calm.
Anger was useful only when controlled.
Before deployment, I had transferred the house into a military family trust that only I could authorize.
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