It was a safety waiver, certifying that the metallurgy issues had been fully resolved.

At the bottom of the page was my father’s signature, dated just three weeks before his death.

Beside his name was Colonel Thomas Whitaker’s official seal.

“He knew,” I said, the words tasting like copper in my mouth.

“My father knew they were sending coffins to the front line.”

“He wanted to pull the plug,” Aaron said quietly.

“But the money was already in the offshore accounts.”

“Whose accounts?” I asked.

Aaron scrolled down to a banking ledger encrypted under a separate subfolder.

The transfer records showed monthly deposits of eighty thousand dollars.

The recipient was a trust fund registered in the Cayman Islands.

The primary beneficiary was Cassandra Whitaker.

My phone vibrated on the laminate tabletop, the sudden noise making me jump.

I picked it up, expecting a call from my mother demanding to know where I was.

Instead, Ethan’s name flashed on the screen.

I slid my finger across the glass to answer.

“Ethan?” I said, keeping my voice low.

“Grace, where are you?” he whispered.