“I’ll arrange a deputy to accompany the process server. Not because you need protection,” he added, “but because men like Warren behave better in front of witnesses.”
“They behave differently,” I said. “Not better.”
Rowan gave a dry little laugh. “Fair enough.”
The third call was not to anyone in my family.
It was to my commanding officer.
I kept it brief. I informed him that a domestic legal matter might expose my rank and public biography. Nothing classified. Nothing operational. But enough that I wanted the chain of command aware before Warren attempted to turn embarrassment into accusation.
When I finished, he said, “Colonel, do you require assistance?”
I looked at my daughters through the glass again.
“No, sir,” I said. “I require a record.”
“You’ll have one.”
By the time I returned to the booth, June had whipped cream on her nose and Sadie had color in her cheeks again.
For twenty minutes, I let them be children.
At the estate, Warren was still playing king.
I learned that later from three different guests, two videos sent anonymously, and one cousin who suddenly remembered she had always admired me.
Apparently, after I left, Warren laughed too loudly and told everyone I was “sensitive.”
Beverly made a small performance of sighing near the family table.
“Some women never learn how to fit into a family,” she announced, loud enough for the nearest guests to hear. “A wife should understand her place.”
Warren raised his glass again.
“To family,” he said.
The guests echoed him.
“To family.”
Then the first server approached him with a folded envelope.
Warren waved him away. “Not now.”
