“No.”
“Then tell me where you belong.”
“I already did.”
“You told me nothing.”
“I told you enough.”
His nostrils flared.
The smell reached her again.
Whiskey.
Not a trace.
Not something imagined.
Strong enough to cut through the coffee.
Strong enough that she wondered how anyone had missed it.
It was not even noon.
Children stood near the memorial wall.
Gold Star families sat beneath a white canopy.
Names of dead Americans were being read less than fifty yards away.
Jessica felt her anger cool into something more disciplined.
She had learned long ago that hot anger made people fast.
Cold anger made them precise.
“Walk away,” she said.
Crawford laughed.
“No.”
The crowd around them widened.
Boots shifted.
Chairs moved.
Families leaned toward each other.
Questions began to spread.
“Who is she?”
“Why isn’t she wearing rank?”
“Does anybody know her?”
“Is she actually military?”
Crawford heard them.
