Drummond didn’t interrupt us.

He simply stood by the desk, a silent witness to the collapse of the Rogers legacy.

“The projector is programmed to display the unsealed files in five minutes,” Drummond said.

“General, please,” Michael begged. “There must be another way.”

“The Navy does not harbor thieves or liars, Commander,” Drummond said.

He picked up the tablet and turned toward the door.

I followed him.

Michael stood in the center of the office, his hands trembling.

We walked back out into the bright, noisy hallway.

Helen was standing near the entrance to the ballroom, talking to a group of senior officers.

She saw us emerge and immediately excused herself from the group.

She walked toward us, her silk dress rustling against the floor.

“Michael,” she said, ignoring me entirely. “What happened? You look pale.”

Michael didn’t look at her.

He looked past her, at the double doors of the ballroom.

“Mother,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“What is it, darling?” she asked, reaching for his face.

He flinched away from her touch.

Helen froze, her hand hovering in the air.