“Grace, don’t,” Ethan said.

I ignored him and reached for the envelope.

The paper was cold and damp under my fingertips.

“Grace, I order you to put that down,” my mother said.

Her voice had lost its social-climbing warmth and was now razor-thin.

I pulled the metal clasp open.

Inside was a stack of thick, cream-colored paper, bound by a rusty paperclip.

The top page bore the official seal of the Department of Defense, but it was stamped in red ink: *ORIGINAL – DO NOT DUPLICATE*.

“What is this?” I asked, looking up at Aaron.

“Those are the actual transfer logs from the Bagram airbase,” Aaron said.

“They don’t match the public record,” I said, flipping to the second page.

“No,” Aaron said. “Because the public record was rewritten.”

I scanned the columns of serial numbers and shipment dates.

One name appeared at the bottom of every authorization sheet, written in a sharp, elegant cursive.

*Eleanor Vane Whitaker.*

My breath caught in my throat.

“This is Cassandra’s mother,” I said.

“She was the CEO of Vane-Whitaker Logistics,” Aaron said. “She controlled the supply lines.”