Chapter 2 - Cold Answers and Warm Blood
The air in the living room was thick with the suffocating scent of stale bourbon, cheap furniture polish, and the metallic tang of unspoken guilt.
Margaret stood straight as a iron rail, her arms folded tightly across her dark gray cardigan. She didn't look at the coffin. She looked at me—or rather, at the rank insignia pinned to the collar of my olive-drab uniform.
"She went into labor early yesterday morning," Mother said, her voice flat, rehearsed, and utterly devoid of warmth. "The storm knocked out the phone lines. By the time Caleb tried to drive into town to get help, the bridge was flooded. She bled out on the sofa. I did everything I could, Daniel. I delivered the boy myself."
"You delivered him?" I repeated softly.
"I had to," she snapped, a sudden flare of defensive anger breaking through her icy mask. "Your brother was stuck in the truck. It was a chaotic, dirty night. When it was over, she simply closed her eyes and stopped breathing. Heart failure. It happens to weak women."
I took a slow, deep breath, letting the air pass through my teeth. Eleven years in Military Intelligence had taught me one fundamental truth: liars always offer unnecessary details to cover the holes in their stories. The flooded bridge. The dead phone lines. The weak heart.
I stepped closer to the coffin, ignoring Caleb, who was watching me over the rim of his glass like a dog waiting for a boot to drop.
I looked down at Emily's neck.
Her high blue collar had been pulled up right to her chin. Gently, using two fingers, I slid the fabric down two inches.
There, hidden beneath the delicate lace, were dark, plum-colored petechiae—tiny broken blood vessels scattered across her throat like crushed berries. Beside them were faint, yellowish impressions shaped like fingertips.
"She didn't bleed out, Mother," I whispered. My voice didn't shake. It had gone entirely dead. "When a woman bleeds out from postpartum hemorrhage, her lips turn as pale as wax, and her skin collapses. Emily's face is congested. There’s fluid in her nail beds."
Mother’s eyes flashed with sudden, terrifying venom. "How dare you! I spent twelve hours in this house trying to save your child while your wife screamed like a farm animal! Is this how you thank me? By standing over her corpse and accusing your own mother?"
"Where is the doctor who signed the death certificate?" I asked.
Caleb cleared his throat, taking a heavy step forward from the fireplace. His face was flushed red from alcohol, his posture aggressive. "Dr. Harrison came by two hours ago, Dan. He signed off on natural causes. Sudden obstetric shock. The funeral home is coming at six to take her away. Leave it alone, man. You’ve been in a war zone too long. You’re seeing ghosts."
"I see a crime scene," I said.
I slipped my hand into my uniform jacket, sliding the tiny micro SD card deep into the reinforced inner seam near my chest rig. The plastic felt cold against my ribs, but it anchored me.
Upstairs, the newborn let out another thin, frantic wail. It sounded like the cry of a child who hadn't been held since he took his first breath.
I turned my back on the coffin and walked toward the stairs.
"Where are you going?" Mother demanded, stepping quickly into my path at the base of the staircase.
"To see my son."
"He’s resting, Daniel. You’re covered in dirt and travel grease. You’ll give him an infection—"
I didn't argue. I simply walked forward.
When a six-foot-two Warrant Officer trained in close-quarters combat moves with intent, a sixty-year-old woman moves out of the way whether she wants to or not. Mother stumbled back against the banister, gasping in shock as I brushed past her.
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"Daniel!" Caleb yelled, dropping his glass onto the hardwood floor. It shattered, spraying whiskey across the rug. "Don't you dare walk away from Mother!"
I didn't look back. I took the stairs two at a time, my combat boots heavy against the wood, following the sound of the crying that was the only living piece of Emily left in this house.
