“This is business.”

“Then conduct it like business.”

His smile disappeared.

“You think being in the Army means something here?”

“I didn’t mention the Army.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He leaned closer.

“Go back to your base. Your mother signs the papers, everybody moves on.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

Jason straightened.

He didn’t answer.

The front door opened again.

Sheriff Collins walked inside.

He looked at Jason.

Then at me.

That told me enough.

“Sarah,” he said, “outside.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re creating a disturbance.”

I looked around.

I was still sitting.

Jason was standing over my table.

“I’m drinking coffee.”

Collins stepped closer.

“I’m asking you to leave.”

Mom came from behind the counter.

“Mark, this is my restaurant.”

“Linda, stay out of it.”

Her face changed.

I put my coffee cup down.

“Don’t speak to my mother like that.”

Jason laughed under his breath.

Then headlights crossed the front windows.

Two black SUVs pulled into the parking lot.

Jason glanced outside.

So did Collins.

The diner went quiet.

The doors opened, and several uniformed personnel stepped out.

One of my officers entered first.

He spotted me near the window and walked directly across the diner.

Jason moved aside.

The officer stopped in front of my booth.

“Good afternoon, Colonel Miller.”

Nobody spoke.

Jason looked at me.

Then at the officer.

Then back at me.

“Colonel?”

I stood.

“Yes.”

Collins’s expression changed immediately.

I picked up my coffee.

“But that doesn’t matter here.”

I looked at Jason.

“This isn’t military business.”

Then I looked at Collins.

“Which means nobody gets to pretend I’m using my rank against you.”

The officer beside me waited.

I handed Mom enough cash to cover my coffee.

“I’m leaving because I have somewhere else to be.”

Collins said nothing.

Jason did.

“This isn’t over.”

I stopped beside the door.

“I know.”

For the first time since I’d come home, I believed him.

And for the first time, I wasn’t worried about what he meant.

What My Father Left Behind

The man waiting for me that afternoon was Thomas Bennett.

He had been my father’s attorney for nearly fifteen years.

I hadn’t seen him since Dad’s funeral.

Thomas placed an old brown leather briefcase on Mom’s kitchen table.

She recognized it immediately.

“Where did you get that?”

“Your husband gave it to me.”

Mom sat down.

I stayed standing.

“When?”

Thomas looked at me.

“Six weeks before he died.”

He opened the case.

Inside were copies of property assessments, bank records, correspondence, and handwritten notes.

I felt my frustration rise.