That made her laugh. A surprised, almost girlish laugh.
For a moment, I saw the woman she might have been before the door clicked shut.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked.
My mother’s face tightened. “He’s outside in the car. He says he’s not ready.”
“He’s been ready for twelve years, Mom.”
“He’s ashamed, Claire. He can’t even look at himself in the mirror.”
“And yet he’s sitting in the car.”
My mother looked down. “He’s afraid you’ll look at him the way he looked at you that night.”
The night I stood in the rain.
The night he said, “You didn’t make it.”
I felt the old wound twist, but it didn’t bleed the way it once had.
“Tell him to come in. I’m not the same person he closed the door on.”
My mother nodded, went outside, and fifteen minutes later, my father stepped through the threshold.
He looked older than the courtroom. Smaller. His hands hovered at his sides like they had nowhere to go.
“Claire.”
“Dad.”
He stood in my living room, surrounded by evidence of a life he hadn’t seen: school pictures, crayon drawings, a Navy command coin on the bookshelf.
He swallowed. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Then don’t say anything yet,” I said. “Just be here.”
He nodded, then looked at Emily, who was peeking from behind the couch.
“Hi, Grandpa.”
His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Then he sat down heavily in the armchair and pressed his hands to his face.
Emily looked at me. “Is Grandpa okay?”
“He’s going to be,” I said.
I hoped it was true.
It wasn’t until after lunch, when my parents were in the backyard watching Emily run through the sprinkler, that my phone rang.
The same number from the courthouse.
“Commander Hayes?”
“Yes.”
“This is Lieutenant Commander Price’s office. We need you to come in on Monday. The matter regarding Petty Officer Mitchell has taken an unexpected development.”
My stomach tightened.
“What kind of development?”
“There’s evidence to suggest the falsification was part of a broader scheme involving personnel you may know. We’d like your input.”
I looked out the window at my parents, laughing awkwardly as Emily sprayed them with the hose.
“Monday,” I repeated.
“Yes, ma’am. And Commander? You might want to bring legal counsel.”
The line went dead.
I stood there, phone in hand, while the afternoon sun poured through the kitchen window.
Michael came in and saw my face.
“What happened?”
“Tom’s case isn’t just Tom.”
He tensed. “What does that mean?”
I told him.
Monday morning, I walked into the NCIS office with a lawyer the Navy legally assigned to me. Her name was Lieutenant Chloe Sanders. She was young, sharp-eyed, and didn’t waste time.
“The medical form that forged your father’s signature,” she said, sliding a page across the table. “It was flagged as one of three attempts to block your accession.”
“Three?”
“Someone else also submitted a fraudulent complaint to the recruiter, claiming you had a disqualifying medical condition.”
I stared at her. “Tom was still a civilian back then. How would he know what conditions might disqualify me?”
Sanders lifted an eyebrow. “That’s the question.”
She pulled up a folder on her tablet.
“Initial IP addresses traced back to your brother and cousin. But there’s a third IP address—one that was routed through a Sailor’s anonymous proxy server.”
My hands felt cold.
“A military server?”
“Yes. Someone with access to naval medical records actively assisted your brother in destroying your career.”
I felt the floor tilt under me.
“Who?”
Sanders turned the screen toward me.
“Lieutenant Commander Marcus Reyes.”
The name didn’t register.
“He was a junior officer at the Naval Supply School twelve years ago,” Sanders said. “He’s now a senior logistics coordinator at the same facility where your brother was assigned.”
