“Third floor, Colonel,” he said. “The Staff Judge Advocate is waiting for you.”

I rode the elevator up in silence, the cables humming behind the steel walls.

When the doors opened, Colonel Vance was standing near the receptionist’s desk, holding a thick manila folder.

He was a tall man with graying hair and a face line-hardened by thirty years of military law.

“Colonel Hart,” he said, nodding toward his office. “In here, please.”

I followed him into the room, and he closed the heavy oak door behind us.

The office was small, dominated by a dark wooden desk and a window overlooking the parade grounds.

“Sit down, Sarah,” Vance said, using my first name for the first time in five years.

I remained standing. “I prefer to stand, Colonel.”

He sighed and sat behind his desk, opening the folder.

“The formal complaint was filed at midnight by the office of Senator Thomas Crane,” Vance said, looking up at me. “It alleges misuse of military intelligence resources, unauthorized surveillance of civilians, and harassment of the Prescott family.”

“I was investigating the abuse of my daughter, Emily Prescott, by her husband,” I said.