He’d seen the wallpaper photo before. It was Liza and eleven other soldiers, all holding their weapons and smiling. All he knew was that it had been taken while she’d been deployed in Kabul.

The notebook was opened to a page bearing a sketch that he’d never seen before. He tugged the notebook closer so that he could see the sketch more clearly. It wasn’t particularly artistic, but it didn’t have to be for him to get the gist of its purpose.

An angel held the caduceus staff in both hands, the smaller wings of the caduceus the same shape as the larger outspread wings of the angel. Instead of snakes, a stethoscope wound around the staff. Which, on closer inspection, wasn’t a staff at all. It was a semiautomatic rifle. But the detail that grabbed his attention was the names written on the feathers of the angel’s wings, three on the left, four on the right.

Seven names, each with a different symbol sketched below. Ted had a football. Lenny, a violin. Judy, a baby bottle. Odell, a smiling sun. Neil’s name was surrounded by the ABCs. Christie had a medal on a ribbon. And Fritz had two connected rings against a broken heart.

His gaze lingered on the broken heart, wondering what it meant. Wondering what the rings meant. Wondering who Fritz had been. Wondering who all of the people had been.

Had been being the operative phrase. This was clearly a memorial. A helmet hung from the top of the rifle. A pair of empty boots was positioned at its base.

These people had meant something to Liza. And they’d died.

Eyes stinging, he hugged Liza harder, and the question just slipped out. “Who was Fritz?”

ELEVEN

ROCKLIN, CALIFORNIA

THURSDAY, MAY 25, 5:05 A.M.

Who was Fritz?”

Liza went still, Tom’s softly spoken words glaringly loud in the quiet of the night. You wanted him to know. You wanted to talk about Fritz. To acknowledge him as being important.

“My husband.”

Tom’s shocked gasp seemed to echo off the walls. “Your . . . what?” He reared back, their gazes colliding. “You were married?”

Liza used her sleeve to wipe her face. Dammit, her eyes hurt. Resting her head against his broad chest had felt so good while it had lasted. That comfort was gone, and although he still held her, there was confused accusation in his eyes.

“For a little while, yes,” she murmured.

“How long?”

“A month.”

“And then?”

She inhaled deeply, then let it out. Stalling, because saying the words aloud hurt. Knowing that she should move off his lap, but unable to make her body obey the command. “He died.”

“Oh.” The word was uttered on a huff of breath, then she felt him straightening his back and bracing his shoulders. But he still held her. Not tightly, but he hadn’t let her go. “In combat?”

“Yes.”

“Is that . . .” He hesitated. “Is that what you were dreaming about? You screamed.”