Madison sank into a vinyl desk chair, her face ghost-white under the harsh fluorescent lights.

I laid the plastic bag on the metal desk between us.

Beside it, Madison placed the folded piece of paper she had carried in her coat.

The paper was damp, the ink slightly blurred at the edges, but the official Department of Defense seal at the top was perfectly legible.

It was a standard Report of Casualty.

My name, Captain Natalie Brooks, was typed in the center column.

The cause of death was listed as training accident, blunt force trauma.

At the bottom of the page was the digital signature of Colonel Marcus Hayes.

“He signed this,” I whispered, my fingers touching the rough edge of the paper. “My own commanding officer.”

“He was at the house last week, Natalie,” Madison said, looking up at me. “He was in the study with Dad. They locked the door, but I heard them arguing about shipping routes.”

“Hayes has been my mentor for five years,” I said.

My voice felt hollow, like it was coming from someone else.