My hair was short.
The scars could not be seen unless someone knew where to look.
Marjorie’s attorney accused me of using military composure to conceal resentment.
“Yes,” I replied.
He blinked.
“Yes?”
“I resent being attacked in my sleep. I resent forged documents, fraud, threats against my career, and attempts to steal twenty-two years of service.”
I looked toward the jury.
“Composure does not mean I have no feelings. It means my feelings are not in command of the facts.”
Finally, he asked whether I had ever loved Daniel Mercer.
“I loved the person I believed he was.”
I looked toward the man whose federal records would eventually return him to his original name, Nolan Voss.
“That person never existed.”
The verdict came after two days.
Guilty on the major counts.
Not every count.
Courts rarely deliver perfect endings.
But the spell was broken.
Months passed.
My command became too demanding to leave much room for public attention.
