“Your mother is currently being detained in the visitor center by federal authorities,” Drummond added, his eyes softening slightly. “They are executing a warrant for interstate wire fraud.”

“I should be there,” I said.

“Go,” Drummond said. “But remember your bearing, Colonel. You represent the uniform.”

I saluted him, turned on my heel, and walked out into the corridor.

The air in the hallway was cool and smelled of wax and old paper.

I walked down the long corridor toward the civilian side of the station, my dress boots clicking rhythmically on the linoleum.

The rain had started again, tapping gently against the high arched windows that looked out over the darkened harbor.

I found my mother in a small, windowless interrogation room near the security gate.

Two federal agents in gray suits stood outside the glass partition.

Inside, Helen Rogers sat on a metal chair, her expensive silk shawl draped over her shoulders.

Even in custody, she held her head high, her silver hair perfectly coiffed, though her face was pale.

I pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside.