“Because the retired Chief of Police who handled that case is sitting at Table Four,” Drummond said.

“And he was paid a substantial sum of money by your mother’s trust fund two weeks after the funeral.”

Michael’s breath became shallow.

“No,” he whispered. “No, she wouldn’t do that. Dad loved her.”

“Our father was planning to divorce her, Michael,” I said.

“You were too young to see the papers, but I found them in his desk before she burned them.”

The small office felt increasingly cramped.

The heat from the old radiator in the corner hissed.

“We need to go back out there,” Michael said, his eyes wild. “We have to stop this.”

“Stop what?” I asked. “The truth?”

“It will ruin everything,” he said. “Our family name. My commission. Everything.”

“Our family name was built on a lie, Michael,” I said.

I walked over to him and stood inches from his face.

“I bled in the sand for this country while you sat in air-conditioned offices, reading reports our mother bought for you.”

“I didn’t ask for that!” he shouted.

“But you accepted it,” I said.