Bradley turned.
“Because Captain Mercer holds the appropriate clearance for the information that can be released at this stage.”
That answer struck with almost physical force.
For years, Beatrice had used my military career as proof that I had been a bad wife.
Too ambitious.
Too independent.
Too committed to service.
Now the very career she despised was the reason the highest-ranking officer at the cemetery had walked past her carefully staged front row and come directly to me.
Beatrice seemed to recognize the irony at the same moment I did.
“This is absurd,” she snapped.
“She’s his ex-wife.”
“And a military intelligence officer,” Bradley replied.
“Those facts are not mutually exclusive.”
A few people shifted uncomfortably.
Nobody laughed.
Nobody needed to.
The humiliation was not mine anymore.
Scarlett’s hand moved protectively over her stomach.
“If he’s alive, I need to speak to him.”
Bradley softened slightly.
“Garrett is under medical care.
Contact is restricted for now.
When his physicians and command authorize communication, he will decide whom he wishes to contact.”
“I’m having his baby.”
“Then that will be a matter for the two of you to address when communication is permitted.”
Beatrice shook her head.
“No.
Garrett would want Scarlett there.”
Bradley studied her.
“Perhaps.
But Garrett is alive, Mrs.
Cole.
That means he can speak for himself.”
For seven years, Beatrice had spoken for him whenever it benefited her.
Garrett deserves someone who knows her place.
Garrett wanted a different life.
Garrett is happier now.
Garrett has moved on.
Garrett doesn’t need more pressure from you.
That morning she had gone one step further and decided what a supposedly dead Garrett would want too.
The general had just removed that power from her with one sentence.
He can speak for himself.
The funeral ended without a burial.
The honor guard lifted the flag from the casket and folded it back into military custody.
There was no presentation.
No staged photograph of Scarlett accepting it.
No final image of Beatrice’s chosen widow becoming part of Garrett’s official story.
Reporters were asked to leave the immediate graveside while the casualty correction was processed.
The crowd broke into confused clusters.
Some relatives approached Beatrice with questions.
Others avoided her completely.
Scarlett remained beside the chairs, pale and furious.
As I turned to leave with the triplets, she called my name.
“Alex.”
I stopped.
She walked toward me, her eyes red.
