I pocketed the phone.

“She is still in the ballroom,” I said. “She hasn’t left the base yet.”

“The award ceremony for the Pacific task force starts in ten minutes,” Hayes said, checking his watch.

“Then that is where we find her,” I said.

We walked down the narrow, fluorescent-lit corridor of the administrative building.

My dress blues felt stiff, the medals on my chest clinking softly with every step.

The rain beat against the high windows, a steady, heavy drone that echoed through the concrete halls.

We passed through the security checkpoint and back into the main hangar-turned-ballroom.

The room was filled with the smell of damp wool, expensive perfume, and catered roast beef.

Over two hundred officers and guests stood in clusters under the massive white silk draperies.

At the far end of the room, a raised stage was draped in blue and gold banners.

I saw my mother, Helen Rogers.

She stood near the foot of the stage, wearing a dark green silk dress that looked like pine needles.

She was laughing, a glass of champagne held lightly between her manicured fingers.