“Sure. Until I talk to my wife.” He laughed and shook his head. “She’ll be fine. I’ll be there all day today and tomorrow. I’ll drive tomorrow night and give myself Sunday and Monday to review these files. I can access the SCIF at Campbell.”

“Good.” Rick gestured with his thumb. “I need to go finish packing my desk.”

“Yes, sir. See you Sunday.”

“Yeah. After chapel?”

“Roger.”

Rick left Hanson in the ready room and went to his cubicle. He had left a cardboard box on a chair, so he started tossing things into it. A bottle of Kentucky bourbon autographed by the master distiller and some other notable people sat on top of his filing cabinet, so he wrapped it in some bubble wrap and set it gently in the box. His nameplate, box of pens, and personal stapler followed. Soon, he’d stripped everything personal away.

While he worked, he tried to process Bill’s involvement with Cynthia. As his brother in Christ, he shouldn’t have done something that hurt Rick so deeply. Unless, of course, he’d only intended to help him avoid the inevitable hurt.

His stomach growled as he hefted the box. On his way out of the room, he looked at the clock. It was almost one, so he’d missed eating in the chow hall. He would put the box in his car and hit a fast-food place on post.

As he opened his car door, his mind wandered back over the days spent with Cynthia in Kentucky. Emotion tightened his chest and made his eyes burn. A part of him wanted to rail at Cynthia, make her hear what he thought of her feelings on the matter, but he wouldn’t ever do that. Instead, he’d focus on work and just keep operating the way he always had.

Chapter
Twenty-seven

WASHINGTON, DC

Stirring the caramel into the melting vanilla ice cream was almost hypnotizing. Cynthia felt riveted watching it. It reminded her of the whirlpool at the base of the waterfall she’d seen in Kentucky. A tear slid down her nose and splashed into the bowl.

Her dad had walked in on her crying at the kitchen counter and sent the staff away. He’d pulled off his tie and kicked off his shoes. Now they sat at the kitchen island among the remnants of chili dogs and all the fixings. The ice cream container sat open, the scoop slowly sliding down into the melting dessert.

“What do you think you want to do?” her dad asked.

What a good question. “I think I want to go back in time two weeks and change a conversation.”

For several moments, he watched her, then finally asked, “With a certain Army captain of our acquaintance?”

“I really messed that up, Dad. I thought . . .” Her breath hitched.

“You thought . . . ?”