Because I had found an envelope from a private security contractor wedged behind the microwave.
A contractor whose name should never have been in my father’s kitchen.
A contractor connected to a mission that had officially never happened.
A mission where twelve Americans were supposed to die.
A mission where only eleven came home.
I had tucked the envelope into my jacket before Mason saw it.
Then I agreed to meet him.
Not because I wanted a drink.
Because the postmark on that envelope was Jacksonville, North Carolina.
And Mason’s unit was stationed five miles from the return address.
So I walked into The Brass Rail wearing dark jeans, a black sweater, a tan field jacket, and boots clean enough to look civilian but broken-in enough that the sergeant noticed them before my brother did.
His name was Staff Sergeant Cole Maddox.
I knew that because Mason said it too many times.
