“Then do it right,” Mike said. “No headlines. No mistakes. No loose ends.”
Dante held his gaze. “Understood, sir.”
Mike finally let the silence settle. “She deserves the real thing, Dante.”
“She’ll get it,” he replied. “From me.”
Mike turned to the door. The conversation was over.
Mike closedthe den door behind Dante, the latch clicking into place behind him. He stood in the hallway for a second, silence pressing in around him like altitude.
He walked upstairs, stepped through the half-open master bedroom door, and found her exactly where he expected: standing near the far wall, back straight, hands in her jeans pockets. She wasn’t moving, just staring at her mother’s footlocker.
The old green military case sat at the end of his bed. The latches were closed but not locked. Dented in places, paint faded in others, the initials M.M.J. still stenciled across the top.
Shannon didn’t turn around. “She wore your wings,” she said quietly. “Did you know that?”
Mike stayed near the doorway, hands at his sides.
“She had them sewn into the lining of her flight jacket,” Shannon said. “Found them in a side pocket the day after her funeral. Still clipped together. Air Force issue. Yours.”
Mike’s voice was quiet. “I know.”
Shannon finally turned her head. Her eyes were dry but not hard. “I barely remember her voice, but I remember her hands. She used to lace her boots tighter than regs required. Said loose laces got people killed.”
Mike’s throat worked, but he didn’t speak.
Shannon looked down at the footlocker again. “I don’t open it much. Smells like cedar and engine oil. Sometimes lavender.”
Mike nodded once.
“I’ve never told anyone that,” she added.
Another silence stretched. Then she glanced over at him. “You think I’m like her?”
Mike looked at his daughter, standing tall and composed, like she was still waiting to be cleared for something. “You have her eyes.”
“I wasn’t asking about my eyes.”
He took a step closer. “You’re more like her than you think. She burned hotter than I ever could. Never backed down. Hated to be handled.”
Shannon smiled faintly. “Sounds familiar.”
Mike nodded. “She was the only person I ever met who scared me in the air. Not because she was reckless. Because she was better than me, and I knew it.”
The quiet between them thickened—not with anger but with shared memory.
“She would’ve liked you now,” he said. “Maybe even more than she liked me.”
Shannon didn’t speak. Just blinked once.
“I didn’t tell you to come home last night because I wanted to control you,” Mike said. “I asked because I know how fast these things start. And how fast they can fall apart.”
Shannon looked at him steadily. “You thought he’d use me.”
Mike didn’t answer.
“You thought I’d be stupid,” she said, voice harder now. “Naive.”
