Chapter 2
Arlington National Cemetery
Addison clenched her fists by her side and dug her nails into the palms of her hands while the honor guard lifted the flag from the gleaming coffin and stepped to the side.
The soldiers at each end snapped the flag tight and folded the corners together, turning the flag with precise, choreographed movements. How many hundreds of times had they done this? Too many, she was sure. And completely unnecessary this time, because her brother was alive.
In the six weeks since she’d returned from Iraq, she’d failed to convince anyone. Not her parents. Not his unit. Not the Navy. No one believed her. They chalked it up to survivor’s guilt. Shock or PTSD. An ultimate refusal to accept the truth. She’d even been ordered to undergo a psych evaluation. She’d waited until her request to resign her commission had been accepted before telling her commander to go fuck himself.
The honor guard finished folding the flag and presented it to her mother “on behalf of a grateful nation.” Fuck the grateful nation. That same nation was leaving her brother out there somewhere to rot.
One by one, her brother’s teammates approached the coffin, knelt beside it, and pounded their SEAL trident pins into the lid. Each one echoed with a sense of finality that was as devastating as the continued refusal to believe her. They were sealing his fate as surely as if they were pounding nails into his coffin.
Addison couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t watch an empty box be lowered into the ground while the bugler played “Taps” and the honor guard fired the volley. Spinning on her heel on the green carpet laid over the soft ground, she only got a few steps before her uncle grabbed her upper arm and stopped her.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked in a low voice.
“I’m not staying here for the rest of this farce,” she whispered.
“You need to quit being so selfish. Do you understand what this is doing to your parents?”
She glanced to her left. Her mother sat with her head bowed, clutching the folded flag to her chest, tears streaming unchecked down her face, her father’s arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She knew exactly what it was doing to them. They were too immersed in their own grief to deal with her. She understood and didn’t blame them—in their minds, they’d lost their son—but it left her isolated and alone.
Looking back at her uncle, she said, “They wouldn’t be going through this if someone would just believe me. He’s not dead.” She wrenched her arm away and marched off.
Her heels clicked on the wide, paved sidewalk as she left the grass. The signpost ahead pointed toward the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
How many families went to the Tomb wondering if their loved one was one of the many unidentified remains interred in the Tomb? How many families spent years coming to terms with the reality they would never know what happened to their missing father, son, brother? How long did it take before they gave up and moved on with their lives?
She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She was looking into private investigators, ones with military experience, to help her figure out what happened to Braedon and find him. Finding one that wouldn’t feed her a line of bullshit while robbing her blind appeared to be the biggest obstacle.
The hair on the back of her neck prickled and she glanced over her shoulder. A man in a dark suit walked several paces behind her. He’d been at Braedon’s sham of a funeral and had been one of the first to pound in a trident. His longish dark hair, combed back from his face, short beard, and lack of uniform said he wasn’t active Navy. She’d caught him looking directly at her during the funeral. It could have been because she wasn’t sitting with her parents, but she hadn’t gotten Judgey McJudgerson vibes off him like some of the other attendees, especially her parents’ few country club friends who’d made the trip from Texas.
Looking back again, he was still there. Still keeping pace with her. His relaxed, hands-in-pockets, casual stroll didn’t fool her. He held himself the same way Braedon did. Tight and loose at the same time. Like a coiled snake in that moment before it strikes—mesmerizing and deadly.
Addison stopped and turned to face him. “Can I help you?”
* * *
Devon stopped a few feet from her and shook his head. “Just want to make sure you’re safe.”
“I can take care of myself,” she said.
His lips twitched. “I know you can, Addison.”
She cocked her head, and the corners of her eyes tightened. Not quite a full squint, but she telegraphed her distrust well enough.
“Have we met?” she asked.
“No. I’m Devon Nash. I was teammates with your brother.” The soft skin of her palm felt like silk in his when she took his outstretched hand.
“You were on the op in Syria with him?”
“No.” He shook his head, releasing her hand. “I wasn’t there. We served together on our first tour.”
“How do you know my name?” she asked.
“Braedon talked about you a lot. He showed me your picture once.” A picture Devon had printed out and stuck in his wallet. Faded and worn through at the creases, he’d carried it around for almost a decade—along with his infatuation with his teammate’s twin sister.
