Chapter 3

The breaking point came on Memorial Day weekend.

It was a sacred time in Liam's family, and by extension, mine. His father, General Miller, was a hero. My own father was a hero. It was a weekend of quiet remembrance.

Every year, Eleanor, Liam's mother, would come to stay with us. We would visit the Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery together. It was a tradition I cherished. It connected me to her, and to the memory of the fathers we had both lost.

On Saturday morning, I went into the den. It was our family's sanctuary. The centerpiece was a large, glass-fronted display case. Inside, on a bed of rich, dark velvet, rested General Miller's folded burial flag and his Navy Cross, the nation's second-highest award for valor. Polishing the glass and the wood of that case before Eleanor arrived was my private ritual.

I opened the den door and my breath caught in my throat.

The case was open.

General Miller' s prestigious Navy Cross had been pushed carelessly to the side. In its place, gleaming under the display light, was a set of tarnished, cheap dog tags.

I walked closer, my hands trembling. I knew who they belonged to. Brenda had mentioned her late husband was a soldier.

I turned around. She was standing in the doorway, a dust cloth in her hand, a look of pious satisfaction on her face.

"What is this?" I asked, my voice a low growl.

"I was just dusting," she said smoothly. "I thought it was only right. My husband, he served too. We should honor all our veterans, shouldn't we?"

The sheer, calculated disrespect was a physical blow. Her husband, as I later learned, had been dishonorably discharged. To place his tarnished tags next to a Navy Cross was not an act of honor. It was an act of sacrilege. It was a deliberate desecration.

Rage, pure and white-hot, flooded through me. I reached into the case, snatched the dog tags, and threw them across the room. They hit the far wall with a pathetic clatter.

"Get out," I snarled. "Get out of my house. You're fired."

"You can't do that!" she shrieked, her pious mask falling away to reveal the venom beneath. "Liam won't let you!"

"Watch me," I said, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the front door.

Just as I shoved her onto the porch, Liam's car pulled into the driveway. He got out, saw Brenda crying hysterically on the steps, and his face darkened.

He stormed towards me, ignoring my attempts to explain.

"What did you do?" he yelled, getting right in my face.

"She put her husband's dog tags in your father's memorial case!" I shouted back. "She desecrated his memory!"

"They both served, didn't they?" Brenda sobbed from the steps, repeating her vile justification.

Liam looked at me, his eyes filled with a fury I had never seen before. "She is an old woman. You have no respect."

And then he slapped me.

The sound cracked through the quiet afternoon air. The sting on my cheek was nothing compared to the shock that paralyzed me. My husband, the man I loved, had just hit me. For her.

At that exact moment, a black town car pulled up to the curb.

Eleanor stepped out, elegant and composed as always, ready for our annual visit to the cemetery.

She took in the scene in a single, sweeping glance: me, holding my cheek in disbelief; Liam, his hand still raised, his face contorted with rage; Brenda, crumpled on the porch, a picture of malicious triumph.

Eleanor's face, usually a mask of dignified strength, registered pure shock.

Brenda saw her. The triumph in her eyes turned to sheer, abject terror. She scrambled to her feet and tried to run, but she was frozen in place by Eleanor's gaze.

"Brenda?" Eleanor's voice was a whisper of ice and disbelief. "Is that you?"