Julian handed me a coin from his pocket.

Black.

7-1-9.

My stomach tightened.

I took mine from the inside compartment of the duffel.

They were identical.

Neither of us spoke.

I removed the screw.

Inside the base was a device no bigger than two stacked credit cards.

A small screen illuminated when I touched it.

One line appeared.

CLAIRE ONLY.

Then:

IF THEY USE MY NAME, DO NOT GO.

I stopped breathing for a second.

Another line appeared.

MY DEATH REPORT IS FALSE.

I read it again.

Julian stood beside the dresser without moving.

“You knew.”

“Not until recently.”

I turned toward him.

“My husband was buried yesterday.”

“I know.”

“I stood beside his coffin.”

“Claire—”

“Was he inside it?”

Julian said nothing.

That was my answer.

A hard knock came from downstairs.

My father called up.

“Claire! They say they have orders!”

The device changed again.

TRUST THE COIN.

Then the screen went dark.

I looked at Julian.

“Who are you?”

He reached slowly beneath his sweater.

For one second I thought he was going for a phone.

Instead, he pulled out a federal credential.

I read it.

Then read it again.

“Harper knows?”

“No.”

“Your marriage?”

His face tightened.

“It started as access.”

I stared at him.

“Access to me?”

“To David.”

Downstairs, Harper called his name.

Julian closed his eyes briefly.

“Then it stopped being an assignment.”

“Does my sister know any of this?”

“No.”

Another knock.

Harder.

Julian looked toward the door.

“We need to move.”

The Man My Sister Married

When we came downstairs, the sergeant had entered the foyer.

Two more men stood behind him.

“Colonel, we’ve been ordered to depart immediately.”

“By whom?” I asked.

The sergeant gave me a name.

“General Mercer.”

Julian’s hand moved beneath his sweater.

I saw it.

So did the sergeant.

“Hands where I can see them.”

Julian drew first.

Harper screamed.

My father stood up too quickly, and Julian grabbed his shoulder, pulling him behind the wall beside the kitchen.

“Everybody stay down.”

Harper stared at her husband.

“Julian!”

“Get behind the island.”

“What are you doing?”

“Harper. Please.”

That word made her move.

The sergeant raised his weapon.

I stepped sideways.

“General Mercer died six months ago.”

The sergeant looked at me.

Nothing crossed his face.

That frightened me more than surprise would have.

“Colonel, our orders—”

“Came from a dead man?”

Silence.

Julian spoke quietly.

“They’re not your extraction team.”

The two men behind the sergeant began backing toward the porch.

Julian kept his weapon raised.

My father’s hands trembled beside him.

“Claire, what is happening?”

I didn’t answer.

The device inside my jacket vibrated.

I pulled it out.

Three words filled the screen.

TRUST JULIAN. MOVE.

I looked at him.

“Back exit?”

He nodded.

My mother started toward me.

“Claire, don’t leave with him.”

I looked at her, then at Harper.

She was crouched beside the kitchen island, staring at her husband as though she had never seen him before.

Maybe she hadn’t.

My pillow was still visible through the open garage door.

An hour earlier, that had been the worst thing happening in my life.

Now it looked almost ridiculous.

I picked up my duffel.

“Julian.”

“Yeah?”

“Take me to my husband.”

His eyes met mine.

“Okay.”

And that was how I left my own house on Thanksgiving morning—through the laundry room, carrying the flag from a funeral that should never have happened.

Seven Months After the Crash

Julian drove for almost two hours.

He answered very few questions.

David’s aircraft had gone down seven months earlier during an overseas operation. Three bodies were recovered. Others were not.

David had been listed missing before I received notification that evidence confirmed his death.

I had believed it because the people delivering that information wore the same uniform I did.

Eventually we turned through a rusted gate beside an abandoned regional airfield.

A hangar stood at the far end of the runway.

Julian stopped the SUV.

“Go inside.”

I looked at him.

“You’re not coming?”

“This part isn’t mine.”

I carried my bag across the cracked pavement.

The hangar door was open about three feet.

I stepped through.

At first I saw only folding tables, equipment cases and a small aircraft parked near the back wall.

Then a man stood up.

He had lost weight.

His hair was longer.

There was a scar near his temple that hadn’t been there before.

But I knew the way he stood.

David.

For seven months, I had gone to sleep beside an empty half of our bed.

Yesterday I had accepted a folded flag in both hands.

Now my dead husband was walking toward me.

“Claire.”

I dropped the duffel.

He reached me.

I wrapped both arms around him.

Then I hit him in the chest.

Hard.

“You let me bury you.”

He took it.

I hit him again.

“You let me stand there yesterday.”

“I know.”

“I picked your flowers.”

His eyes closed.

“I know.”

I pressed my forehead against his chest.

His heart was beating.

That stupid detail mattered more than anything else.

Then he pulled back.

His eyes dropped to my stomach.

He looked at me.

Then down again.

“Claire.”

I wiped my face.

“Five months.”

He didn’t speak.

His hand lifted, then stopped.

“Can I?”

I took his wrist and placed his palm against my stomach.

For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then the baby moved.

David’s mouth opened slightly.

He looked at me.

“That was—”

“Your daughter.”

His knees almost gave.

I caught his arm.

He laughed once, but there was no humor in it.

“A girl?”

“A girl.”

He lowered his forehead against mine.

For maybe thirty seconds, the airfield disappeared.

Then Julian entered the hangar.

“We need to talk.”

David’s hand stayed on my stomach.

“Yeah.”

He looked at me.

“We do.”