Footsteps echoed in the grand foyer.

The footsteps stopped at the arched entryway of the drawing room.

Colonel Thomas Whitaker stood there, his wet wool overcoat dripping onto the polished oak floor.

His face was gray, the deep lines around his mouth etched with sudden exhaustion.

“Thomas,” my mother said, her voice instantly smoothing out its rough edges.

“It is over, Eleanor,” Colonel Whitaker said.

He did not look at his daughter, Cassandra.

He looked straight at Aaron, then down at the thick manila envelope in my hands.

“It is only over if we allow it to be,” my mother said.

She turned on me with a sudden, terrifying speed.

Her manicured hand lunged for the papers in my grip.

I twisted my shoulder back, shielding the files with my body.

“Give them to me, Grace,” she shrilled, her composure completely shattering.

“No,” I said, backing toward the heavy velvet curtains.

“You do not understand what is at stake,” she said, her chest heaving.

“I understand that men died,” I said.

“Soldiers died because of what they did.”

My mother let out a sharp, bitter sound that was half-laugh, half-sob.