Chapter 9
I watched the video again.
Then again.
Each time, Marcus looked more alive.
Each time, I felt less like a widow and more like a soldier who had been pointed at the wrong grave.
Grant paused the image on the background.
Concrete wall.
Exposed pipe.
Yellow safety stripe.
Reeves leaned in.
“Domestic holding site.”
“Military?”
“Maybe contractor.”
Grant studied the wall.
“Vale has private logistics warehouses near Norfolk, Atlanta, and Charlotte.”
Charlotte.
My family home.
Mercy wrapped in frost.
The garage.
The room Raymond wanted.
My bedroom.
I sat straighter.
“Raymond needed my bedroom for a reason.”
Grant looked at me.
“What was in that room?”
“Marcus’s old footlocker.”
“Still there?”
My blood went cold.
“It was under the bed.”
Grant called the team at my house.
Minutes later, the answer came.
Gone.
Raymond had wanted my room because Marcus had hidden something there.
And I had almost moved out quietly.
I laughed once.
Bitter.
“Marcus knew them better than I did.”
Reeves placed another file on the table.
“Ma’am, there’s more.”
The drive contained a manifest.
Routes.
Names.
Payments.
Children listed under medical transfer codes.
My throat closed.
“Children?”
Grant’s voice went low.
“Dependents of service members.”
Pregnant widows.
Military babies.
Families of dead soldiers.
My hand went to my belly.
Raymond’s words returned.
That baby is the key.
I whispered, “They’re stealing benefits.”
Reeves shook his head.
“More than benefits.”
Grant looked sick.
“They’re using military deaths to erase dependents, redirect trusts, and traffic children through fake guardianship programs.”
I stood too fast.
Pain tore through my abdomen.
Grant caught my arm.
“Amelia.”
May you like
I gripped her sleeve.
“Find my husband.”
