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<\/p>\n\u201cHolding area near the security office, ma\u2019am. CID has been notified.\u201d<\/p>\n
I nodded once. \u201cDo not release him. Do not allow him to make calls from any government phone. And make sure every item on him is inventoried in the presence of two witnesses.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, ma\u2019am.\u201d<\/p>\n
The officer left, and for a moment the office became very still.<\/p>\n
Outside the window, morning light stretched across the parade field. Soldiers moved in clean lines, boots striking pavement, voices carrying in disciplined bursts. Everything beyond the glass was order. Everything on my desk was rot.<\/p>\n
Colonel Alvarez stepped closer but did not crowd me. \u201cMa\u2019am, do you need a few minutes?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
My voice surprised me. It was calm. Almost too calm.<\/p>\n
I looked down at the final page my attorney had sent.<\/p>\n
The sealed court record was from thirty-one years earlier. It showed that Ryan Whitaker had not been born Ryan Whitaker. Not legally. Not originally. The name belonged to another child, one who had died before his second birthday. The person I had married had assumed that identity as a teenager after a juvenile fraud case was sealed and buried under a judge\u2019s order.<\/p>\n
But the last line of the record was worse.<\/p>\n
Subject\u2019s biological next of kin listed as: Linda Carroway.<\/p>\n
Linda.<\/p>\n
My mother-in-law.<\/p>\n
Except according to the record, she was not Ryan\u2019s mother.<\/p>\n
She was his aunt.<\/p>\n
I read it twice before my mind accepted what my eyes already knew. Linda had not raised Ryan as a son. She had helped create him as a replacement.<\/p>\n
The phone on my desk rang.<\/p>\n
Not my personal phone. The office line.<\/p>\n
Alvarez glanced at it, then at me.<\/p>\n
Only three people had this number so far: my assistant, the commanding general\u2019s office, and base security.<\/p>\n
I answered. \u201cColonel Whitaker.\u201d<\/p>\n
The voice that came through was thin, trembling, and familiar.<\/p>\n
\u201cEmily.\u201d<\/p>\n
Linda.<\/p>\n
My skin tightened.<\/p>\n
I looked at Alvarez and lifted one finger, signaling him to stay.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow did you get this number?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou need to come home,\u201d Linda said. \u201cThis has gone too far.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHome?\u201d I repeated softly.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes. Home. Where your family is.\u201d<\/p>\n
I almost laughed. Not because it was funny, but because there are moments when cruelty becomes so rehearsed it starts to sound theatrical.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou shaved my head while I slept,\u201d I said. \u201cYou called it discipline. Ryan called it correction. Now you want to talk about family?\u201d<\/p>\n
There was a pause. When she spoke again, her voice lost its tremble.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou were going to leave him behind.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cI was going to take command.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTo people like you, those are the same thing.\u201d<\/p>\n
People like me.<\/p>\n
Women who did not shrink. Soldiers who outranked their husbands. Wives who paid the mortgage but refused to surrender their names, pensions, or futures.<\/p>\n
I glanced at the stack of forged documents on my desk. \u201cRyan is in custody.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n
Something in her tone made me straighten.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe panicked,\u201d she snapped. \u201cHe was told to wait.\u201d<\/p>\n
Told.<\/p>\n
Not asked.<\/p>\n
Not advised.<\/p>\n
Told.<\/p>\n
My pulse slowed.<\/p>\n
\u201cBy whom?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
Linda breathed into the phone, and I could almost see her standing in my kitchen, one hand pressed against the counter, her face composed into that martyr\u2019s mask she wore whenever she wanted the world to believe she had suffered more than anyone else.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re not as clever as you think, Emily.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cBut I\u2019m patient.\u201d<\/p>\n
The line went silent.<\/p>\n
Then Linda said, \u201cThere are things you don\u2019t understand. Things that were set in motion before you ever put on that uniform.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen explain them.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou always did love giving orders.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI learned from professionals.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her breath hitched, anger cracking through the polish.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou think that uniform makes you untouchable,\u201d she said. \u201cBut uniforms come off. Titles disappear. A woman can be made small very quickly when the right people decide she has forgotten her place.\u201d<\/p>\n
Beside me, Colonel Alvarez\u2019s expression hardened.<\/p>\n
I reached for a notepad and wrote: TRACE CALL? He nodded and stepped out swiftly.<\/p>\n
\u201cLinda,\u201d I said, keeping my voice even, \u201clisten carefully. The forged deeds, the pension documents, the insurance forms, the fake credentials Ryan carried this morning\u2014those are crimes. Not family misunderstandings. Not private marriage issues. Crimes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re using big words because you\u2019re scared.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo. I\u2019m using accurate ones because you should be.\u201d<\/p>\n
She laughed then, low and bitter.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t even know his real name.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at the sealed court record.<\/p>\n
\u201cNeither does he, apparently.\u201d<\/p>\n
The silence that followed told me I had finally struck bone.<\/p>\n
When Linda spoke again, her voice had changed completely. It became old. Tired. Almost stripped of performance.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe was supposed to have a better life.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBy stealing a dead child\u2019s identity?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe was a child too.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd now?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNow he is all I have left.\u201d<\/p>\n
There it was. Not remorse. Not apology. Possession.<\/p>\n
Ryan was not a son to her. He was an artifact. A life she had reshaped to fill a grave.<\/p>\n
\u201cLinda,\u201d I said, \u201cwho helped you?\u201d<\/p>\n
She said nothing.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho prepared the documents?\u201d<\/p>\n
Still nothing.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho told Ryan to come to this base with forged credentials?\u201d<\/p>\n
A soft click sounded on the line.<\/p>\n
She had hung up.<\/p>\n
A minute later, Alvarez returned.<\/p>\n
\u201cCall was routed through a civilian number registered to a prepaid device,\u201d he said. \u201cSecurity is preserving the log.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course it was.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMa\u2019am.\u201d He hesitated. \u201cCID wants to speak with you. The general has also been informed.\u201d<\/p>\n
I gathered the court record, the financial reports, and the forged copies into one folder.<\/p>\n
\u201cThen let\u2019s not keep anyone waiting.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n
The security office smelled of burnt coffee, paper, and rain-damp uniforms. Ryan sat behind a reinforced glass panel in a small interview room, wrists free but posture collapsed. He still wore the navy sweater I had last seen thrown over the back of our bedroom chair. His hair was uncombed. His face, usually arranged into wounded superiority, looked pale and unfinished.<\/p>\n
For seven years, I had known every expression he used to control a room. The disappointed sigh. The wounded silence. The small smile when he thought he had won. But now there was nothing polished left.<\/p>\n
When he saw me through the glass, he rose halfway.<\/p>\n
\u201cEmily.\u201d<\/p>\n
One of the CID agents, a woman named Special Agent Price, stood beside me with a tablet in hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t have to speak to him,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n
Ryan pressed one palm against the table. \u201cPlease. Just let me explain.\u201d<\/p>\n
I opened the folder and placed one page against the glass.<\/p>\n
His forged version of my signature stared back at him.<\/p>\n
His eyes dropped to it, then slid away.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou signed my name,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
His mouth trembled. \u201cMom said\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
He stopped.<\/p>\n
I leaned closer. \u201cSay it.\u201d<\/p>\n
He swallowed.<\/p>\n
\u201cMom said you were going to abandon us.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cUs?\u201d<\/p>\n
His eyes flicked up, desperate now. \u201cMe. Her. The life we built.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe life I funded.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s not fair.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cFair ended when I woke up with my head shaved.\u201d<\/p>\n
He flinched as though I had shouted.<\/p>\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t know she was going to do that,\u201d he whispered.<\/p>\n
\u201cBut you let her.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI was angry.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou were afraid.\u201d<\/p>\n
His jaw tightened.<\/p>\n
There. The small vanity survived.<\/p>\n
\u201cAfraid of what?\u201d I asked. \u201cMy promotion? My command? My name on a door?\u201d<\/p>\n
His face twisted. \u201cYou changed.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cYou noticed.\u201d<\/p>\n
For a second, his eyes filled with hatred so naked that even Agent Price shifted her stance. Then the look vanished behind panic.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t understand what she\u2019ll do,\u201d Ryan said quickly. \u201cYou think this is about money, but it isn\u2019t. Not really.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen what is it about?\u201d<\/p>\n
He glanced at the corners of the interview room, at the camera, at Agent Price.<\/p>\n
\u201cI can\u2019t say it here.\u201d<\/p>\n
Agent Price stepped forward. \u201cMr. Whitaker, this is your opportunity to cooperate.\u201d<\/p>\n
Ryan gave a sharp, frightened laugh. \u201cYou think you\u2019re in charge because you have a badge? You have no idea how many badges she\u2019s collected.\u201d<\/p>\n
The air seemed to thin.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n
I looked at Price.<\/p>\n
She did not react openly, but something in her gaze sharpened.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
Ryan sat back down slowly.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt means Linda kept records,\u201d he said. \u201cOn everyone. Judges. lawyers. police. officers. Anyone who helped, anyone who looked away, anyone who took money and pretended it was kindness.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere?\u201d Price asked.<\/p>\n
Ryan looked only at me.<\/p>\n
\u201cAt the house,\u201d he said. \u201cBut not where you think.\u201d<\/p>\n
By noon, my home was no longer my home.<\/p>\n
It was a search site.<\/p>\n
Two police cruisers sat at the curb. A dark federal sedan blocked the driveway. Neighbors stood behind curtains and half-open blinds, finally receiving the kind of spectacle Linda had always feared, though not the one she had planned for me.<\/p>\n
I arrived in uniform.<\/p>\n
I did not do it for drama. I did it because that morning I had decided I would no longer shrink myself to make anyone else comfortable.<\/p>\n
Linda was on the front porch when I stepped out of the car.<\/p>\n
She wore a cream cardigan and pearl earrings, the costume of innocence. But her face changed when she saw me. Her eyes went first to my uniform, then to my shaved scalp beneath my service cap, then to the agents behind me.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou brought strangers into my son\u2019s home,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy home,\u201d I replied. \u201cAnd they have a warrant.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her lips pressed together.<\/p>\n
Special Agent Price approached. \u201cLinda Carroway?\u201d<\/p>\n
Linda did not answer.<\/p>\n
\u201cLinda Carroway,\u201d Price repeated, \u201cwe have legal authorization to search the premises.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is harassment.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, ma\u2019am. This is procedure.\u201d<\/p>\n
Linda looked at me with contempt so pure it felt almost peaceful.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou always needed an audience.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd you always mistook silence for weakness.\u201d<\/p>\n
The agents entered.<\/p>\n
The search began in the office, then the bedroom, then the garage. They photographed the desk where Ryan had likely forged my signatures. They collected hard drives, folders, old tax boxes, a locked filing cabinet Ryan claimed never to have seen<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
<\/p>\n
Linda remained in the living room like a queen whose throne had been carried into a courtroom. She refused water. Refused questions. Refused even to sit until Price asked whether she needed medical assistance, at which point Linda lowered herself onto the sofa with theatrical dignity.<\/p>\n
I stood near the fireplace and watched strangers uncover the skeleton of my marriage one folder at a time.<\/p>\n
But Ryan had said not where you think.<\/p>\n
After two hours, the agents had found evidence of financial fraud but nothing large enough to match Ryan\u2019s fear.<\/p>\n
Price approached me quietly. \u201cColonel, is there any part of the house your husband or his mother was especially protective of?\u201d<\/p>\n
I thought about it.<\/p>\n
The office had always been Ryan\u2019s territory, but he had invited me in when he wanted to perform importance. The garage was cluttered, but not sacred. Linda disliked the basement because it was \u201cdamp,\u201d though she had spent plenty of time criticizing how I stored things there.<\/p>\n
Then I remembered the hallway closet.<\/p>\n
Not large. Not remarkable. Just a narrow linen closet near the guest bathroom.<\/p>\n
Three years earlier, I had tried to clean it out and found the back panel strangely loose. Ryan had snapped at me so sharply I had frozen with a stack of towels in my arms. Later he apologized with flowers and a story about childhood memories stored there, saying Linda had kept old things from his father and did not like them disturbed.<\/p>\n
I looked toward the hallway.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe linen closet,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
For the first time all day, Linda moved.<\/p>\n
It was tiny. A twitch of the hand. A tightening around the eyes.<\/p>\n
Price noticed.<\/p>\n
The closet held towels, blankets, cleaning supplies, and a cedar box full of old photographs. An agent removed each item carefully, then knocked along the back wall.<\/p>\n
Hollow.<\/p>\n
Linda stood.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou have no right,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
Price turned. \u201cMa\u2019am, sit down.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou have no right!\u201d<\/p>\n
The agent pried loose the false panel.<\/p>\n
Behind it was a narrow compartment packed floor to ceiling with sealed plastic sleeves, external drives, cash bundles, passports, and manila envelopes labeled in precise handwriting.<\/p>\n
Not Ryan\u2019s handwriting.<\/p>\n
Linda\u2019s.<\/p>\n
The room went silent.<\/p>\n
Even the agents paused for half a breath.<\/p>\n
Price put on fresh gloves.<\/p>\n
She removed the first envelope.<\/p>\n
On the front was a name I did not recognize. Inside were photocopied IDs, bank records, photographs, and notes.<\/p>\n
The second envelope held the same.<\/p>\n
The third.<\/p>\n
The fourth.<\/p>\n
Then Price reached one labeled with my full legal name.<\/p>\n
Emily Hart Whitaker.<\/p>\n
My stomach tightened.<\/p>\n
Inside were copies of my deployment orders, medical records, bank statements, property documents, photographs taken without my knowledge, and printed emails between me and my attorney.<\/p>\n
Not recent ones.<\/p>\n
Years of them.<\/p>\n
At the very back was a handwritten note.<\/p>\n
Subject shows high resistance to dependency conditioning. Recommended pressure points: career isolation, marital guilt, public humiliation, financial entanglement.<\/p>\n
I read the words once.<\/p>\n
Then again.<\/p>\n
Dependency conditioning.<\/p>\n
I looked at Linda, and for the first time, I saw her clearly.<\/p>\n
She was not merely cruel. She was not merely controlling. She had been running a system.<\/p>\n
Ryan had been part victim, part accomplice, part product. But Linda had been the architect.<\/p>\n
Price kept removing envelopes.<\/p>\n
Some were decades old. Some new. Some involved women I had met only briefly at Linda\u2019s church luncheons, neighborhood fundraisers, military spouse events. Women who had divorced suddenly, vanished socially, lost homes, lost custody battles, lost jobs after rumors spread through channels no one could trace.<\/p>\n
Linda had not collected badges.<\/p>\n
She had collected leverage.<\/p>\n
And then one of the agents lifted out a black ledger.<\/p>\n
The cover was worn at the corners. A ribbon marked a page near the middle.<\/p>\n
Price opened it.<\/p>\n
Her expression changed.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat is it?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
She did not answer immediately.<\/p>\n
Instead, she looked past me toward Linda.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere did you get these names?\u201d<\/p>\n
Linda\u2019s face had gone gray.<\/p>\n
\u201cOld friends,\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n
Price turned the ledger so I could see.<\/p>\n
The pages were filled with columns: names, dates, payments, favors, outcomes.<\/p>\n
Some entries were mundane. A county clerk. A banker. A private investigator. A retired judge.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n
Then I saw the section marked military.<\/p>\n
My breath stopped.<\/p>\n
There were names of officers. Former officers. Contractors. Spouses. Promotions delayed. Complaints buried. Medical boards influenced. Security clearances questioned.<\/p>\n
And beside one entry dated six months earlier was my name.<\/p>\n
Outcome pending.<\/p>\n
I felt something cold move through me.<\/p>\n
Alvarez, who had accompanied me as an official observer, leaned in just enough to read the page. His expression did not change, but his voice was quiet when he spoke.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis goes beyond domestic fraud.\u201d<\/p>\n
Price closed the ledger. \u201cYes, Colonel. It does.\u201d<\/p>\n
Linda suddenly smiled.<\/p>\n
It was small. Fragile. Terrifying.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou found paper,\u201d she said. \u201cCongratulations.\u201d<\/p>\n
No one spoke.<\/p>\n
She looked at me. \u201cPaper burns.\u201d<\/p>\n
Price\u2019s radio crackled.<\/p>\n
An agent near the back door shouted, \u201cWe have smoke!\u201d<\/p>\n
Everything happened at once.<\/p>\n
A sharp alarm screamed from the basement. Agents moved fast, voices cutting through the house. Someone pulled Linda away from the sofa. Another ordered me toward the front door, but I was already turning toward the basement stairs.<\/p>\n
My uniforms were down there.<\/p>\n
My father\u2019s flag was down there.<\/p>\n
The original mortgage documents were in a fireproof safe down there.<\/p>\n
And then I remembered something worse.<\/p>\n
The old trunk.<\/p>\n
Ryan\u2019s trunk.<\/p>\n
The one he had always said held childhood keepsakes.<\/p>\n
I ran before anyone could stop me.<\/p>\n
Smoke curled up the stairwell, thin but growing. I covered my mouth with my sleeve and descended far enough to see orange light licking behind the utility shelves. A trash bin burned near the wall, flames climbing toward stacked boxes.<\/p>\n
Then I saw Ryan.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n
He was not supposed to be there.<\/p>\n
He stood near the basement window, half inside, half out, one leg over the sill. His face streaked with soot, his eyes wild.<\/p>\n
For one stunned second, we stared at each other.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou were in custody,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
He shook his head rapidly. \u201cShe got me out.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe always has someone.\u201d<\/p>\n
Behind him, flames snapped higher.<\/p>\n
Ryan clutched a metal lockbox to his chest.<\/p>\n
\u201cGive it to me,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cRyan.\u201d<\/p>\n
His face crumpled. \u201cIt\u2019s mine.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s in it?\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked toward the stairs, toward the smoke, toward the life collapsing above us.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy name,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
For the first time since I had known him, I heard a child in his voice.<\/p>\n
Not innocence. Not goodness. Just terror left too long in the dark.<\/p>\n
\u201cRyan, listen to me,\u201d I said carefully. \u201cCome inside. Give me the box. We can walk upstairs together.\u201d<\/p>\n
He laughed once, brokenly. \u201cTogether? You hate me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t trust you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s worse.\u201d<\/p>\n
The heat pressed against my face.<\/p>\n
A voice shouted from above. \u201cColonel! Out now!\u201d<\/p>\n
Ryan tightened his grip on the box.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe said you\u2019d destroy it,\u201d he said. \u201cShe said you\u2019d destroy me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou did that yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n
His eyes filled with tears he seemed ashamed to have.<\/p>\n
Then he whispered, \u201cThere were others before me.\u201d<\/p>\n
I froze.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe tried before me,\u201d he said. \u201cOther boys. Other names. Other families. I was the one who survived long enough to become useful.\u201d<\/p>\n
The basement seemed to tilt.<\/p>\n
\u201cRyan, what is in the box?\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked down at it.<\/p>\n
\u201cProof she didn\u2019t start with me.\u201d<\/p>\n
A beam cracked overhead.<\/p>\n
The shout from upstairs came again, closer.<\/p>\n
Ryan shoved the lockbox through the window first, then tried to pull himself out. For one terrible moment, his sweater snagged on a bent latch. He thrashed, coughing, panic destroying what little coordination he had left.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
PART 2 The military police officer stood in my doorway with his cap tucked under one arm and the kind…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":1106,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1105","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/foodguide.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1105","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/foodguide.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/foodguide.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foodguide.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foodguide.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1105"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/foodguide.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1105\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1107,"href":"https:\/\/foodguide.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1105\/revisions\/1107"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foodguide.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/1106"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/foodguide.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1105"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foodguide.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=1105"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foodguide.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=1105"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}