At my mother’s funeral, the priest pulled me aside and said, “Your real name isn’t Brooks,” then pressed a storage key into my hand and told me not to go home, and by the time my stepfather texted Come home. Now., I was already driving toward a storage unit with my Army dress uniform still on and a name in my head that hadn’t belonged to me in thirty years.

That answer sounded rehearsed.

I watched him closely.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

He didn’t respond.

For the first time since the funeral, silence hung between us without him filling it.

I realized something in that moment.

My mother had spent years doubting quietly. Thomas had spent years managing perception.

I wasn’t doubting quietly.

And he could feel that shift.

He picked up his phone and glanced at the screen.

“You should head back to base soon,” he said. “You have responsibilities.”

So did he.

I walked past him without another word and headed toward the hallway that led to his study.

The door was closed.

Locked.

That was new.

I knocked on Carla Jennings’s front door just after noon and heard the deadbolt slide before I saw her face.

She looked older than I expected. Not fragile. Just careful. The kind of careful that comes from learning when not to speak.

“I called yesterday,” I said. “Elena Mercer.”

Her eyes shifted slightly at the last name.

“I remember,” she said. “You look like him.”

That wasn’t something people had said to me growing up.

She stepped aside and let me in.

Her house was modest. Clean. Organized. No unnecessary decoration. The blinds were half closed even though it was bright outside.

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” I said. “I just need clarity.”

She gave a short laugh.

“Clarity is usually what causes trouble.”

We sat at her kitchen table.

I placed the copy of Daniel’s email about the audit in front of her.

She didn’t hesitate.

“I typed that spreadsheet,” she said. “Those discrepancies were real.”

“Did he think it was fraud?”

“He thought someone was moving money between subcontractor accounts before draw approvals cleared.”

“That someone being…?”

She looked toward the window before answering.

“Thomas was advising on restructuring. He had access.”

“Did Daniel confront him?”

“Yes.”

“How did that go?”

“Not well.”

She folded her hands on the table.

“Daniel wasn’t reckless. He was direct. He told Thomas if the numbers didn’t reconcile, he’d report it up the chain. Federal contracts don’t forgive mistakes.”

“Was Thomas worried?”

“He was angry.”

That matched my mother’s letter.

“Angry how?”

“Controlled. But tight. Like he’d already calculated what it would cost him.”

I let that sit.

“Were you at the lake the day Daniel died?” I asked.

“No.”

“Do you know who was?”

She hesitated.

“There were rumors.”

“What kind?”

“That Daniel had scheduled a meeting that evening. With Thomas.”

The air in the kitchen shifted.

“Was that documented anywhere?” I asked.

“No formal record. Just office chatter.”

“Daniel mentioned he was going to settle it face to face?”

“Yes.”

I leaned back in the chair.

If that meeting happened, it would mean Daniel wasn’t alone on the water.

Carla nodded slowly.

“I always thought that.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I tried.”

She stood up and walked to a filing cabinet against the wall. After a moment, she returned with a single sheet of paper.

It was a termination notice dated June 4, 1995. Ten days before Daniel’s death.

Reason: departmental restructuring.

“I was let go because I refused to delete backup files,” she said.

“Backup files?”

“Financial snapshots. Daniel wanted records preserved before the audit. And Thomas—he wanted them consolidated.”

Consolidated.