Chapter 3
Inside Mark’s quarters at Fort Bragg, the air had gone from warm to arctic in forty-five minutes.
Natalie Brooks was sitting on the edge of his bed, her silk robe slipping off one shoulder, watching him pace. She was twenty-nine, five years younger than Claire, with long brown hair and a way of tilting her head that made men feel like whatever they were saying was the most interesting thing in the world.
She had been perfecting that look since she was twelve years old.
"Mark," she said, her voice soft. "You’re scaring me. What’s wrong?"
Mark didn’t answer. He was on his fifth attempt to call Claire. Straight to voicemail. Every time. He texted again.
We need to talk. This is a misunderstanding. Please answer.
No reply.
He threw his phone onto the dresser so hard the screen cracked.
"Goddammit!"
Natalie stood up and walked to him, putting her arms around his neck. She pressed her body against his, the way she knew he liked.
"She’ll get over it," she murmured against his chest. "Claire always does. She’s too proud to make a scene. She’ll forgive you. She always does."
Mark pulled away from her.
"You don’t understand. Her brother is Andrew Reynolds."
Natalie rolled her eyes.
"I know who Andrew is. Mark, he’s been a general for, what, a year? He’s not God. He can’t just—"
The door flew open.
Two military police officers stood in the entrance. Behind them, Captain Kyle Parker — his uniform stripped of insignia, his hands cuffed behind his back, his face white as paper.
"Colonel Collins," the senior MP said. "You’re needed at the commanding general’s office. Immediately."
Mark’s blood ran cold.
"What is the meaning of this? Why is Parker in cuffs?"
"Dereliction of duty. Abuse of authority. Aiding and abetting conduct unbecoming an officer. That’s just the start. Move, sir."
Mark looked at Natalie. She was clutching her robe closed, her eyes wide with real fear now.
"Get dressed," he told her. "And don’t say a word to anyone. Not one word."
He followed the MPs out.
The walk across the base to the CG’s office was the longest of Mark’s life. Every soldier they passed stopped and stared. Word traveled fast on a military installation. By the time he reached the building, everyone knew: the golden boy of the 82nd Airborne was in trouble.
He walked into the office.
And stopped.
General Andrew Reynolds was sitting behind the commanding general’s desk.
The actual CG — a two-star named Harris — was standing in the corner, looking like he would rather be anywhere else on earth.
"Andrew," Mark said, trying to keep his voice steady. "What is this? Where is General Harris supposed to—"
"Sit," Andrew said.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The authority rolled off him in waves, thick and suffocating. Mark sat.
Andrew tossed a stack of papers onto the desk. They slid across and stopped right in front of Mark’s chair.
"Do you know what those are?" Andrew asked.
Mark looked down.
Gate logs.
Seventeen entries. Visitor: NATALIE BROOKS. Purpose of visit: OFFICIAL BUSINESS. Authorized by: COLONEL M. COLLINS.
"Official business," Andrew said. "Seventeen times. In three months. Each visit lasting between four and seven hours. Phones turned off. Gate locked. No aides permitted. What kind of official business requires that level of privacy, Mark? Weapons testing? Nuclear codes? Or was it the kind of business you do on your back with your childhood friend while my sister is home making dinosaur nuggets for your son?"
Mark’s face burned.
"This is a private matter between Claire and me. It has no place on this base."
"The hell it doesn’t." Andrew stood up. He was a big man — six foot three, broad-shouldered, with a scar running down his left cheek from a tour in Afghanistan. When he leaned across the desk, Mark flinched. "You used United States Army personnel, United States Army facilities, and United States Army authority to facilitate an affair. You ordered a twenty-year-old kid to lie to my sister and her four-year-old son. That’s not a private matter. That’s a career-ender. And that’s the least of your problems."
He tossed another paper down.
The insurance policy.
Thirty-eight million dollars.
Mark’s eyes went to it. And for the first time, real fear flashed across his face.
"Where did you get that?"
"Doesn’t matter where I got it. What matters is that it exists. Thirty-eight million dollars on my sister’s life. Signed six months ago. Three months before her brakes went out on Route 15. Five months before she fell down those stairs in your house and broke her wrist. You tell me, Mark — are those things connected? Or is it just the unluckiest string of coincidences in the history of the world?"
Mark stood up.
"This is outrageous. You’re accusing me of… what? Trying to kill my wife? I love Claire. I would never—"
"Shut up."
Andrew’s voice cut through the room like a knife.
"I have spent twenty-two years in this Army. I have looked men in the eye right before they died. I know a liar when I see one. And you, Mark Collins, are the worst kind. You’re the kind who smiles while he stabs you in the front. You married my sister for her money. You used her family’s name to build your father’s pathetic little construction company into something that could steal government contracts. And now… now I’m starting to think you married her for her insurance policy too."
Mark was shaking.
"I want a lawyer."
"You’ll get one. But first, you’re going to listen to me. As of right now, you are relieved of all command. Your security clearance is suspended. Your access to this base is revoked effective the second you walk out that door. You will report to the battalion orderly room every morning at 0600 until this investigation is complete. And if you so much as drive past my sister’s house? If you so much as text her? If you breathe in her direction without a court order? I will have you locked in the brig so deep you’ll be able to hear the devil snoring. Are we clear?"
Mark said nothing.
"ARE WE CLEAR?" Andrew roared.
"Yes," Mark whispered.
"Get out of my sight."
Mark stumbled out of the office. The hallway swam in front of him. Relieved of command. Security clearance suspended. His career — the thing he had spent eighteen years building — was gone. Just like that.
He walked outside and pulled out his phone. It was still cracked. He called his father.
"Dad," he said when the old man answered. "We have a problem. A big one. Reynolds Group—"
"I already know," his father said. His voice was shaking. "I just got off the phone with our banker. All the guarantees are gone. Every last one. The credit line is frozen. The government contracts are being terminated as we speak. Mark… we’re finished. The company is finished. We have forty-eight hours before we have to declare bankruptcy."
Mark leaned against the brick wall of the building. The world tilted.
"Where’s Mom?" he said.
"She’s on her way to Claire’s. She says she’s going to ‘talk some sense into that ungrateful girl.’"
Mark’s eyes went wide.
"NO! Dad, tell her not to go. Andrew has men posted around the house. If she shows up there, they’ll arrest her for trespassing. Dad, listen to me — do NOT let Mom go to Claire’s!"
But it was too late.
Fifteen miles away, Eleanor Collins was turning her Mercedes onto Claire’s street. She had her pearls on, her hair done, and a lifetime of practice at making other people feel small. She had spent the last twenty years telling everyone who would listen that Claire Reynolds was never good enough for her Mark. That Natalie was the one he should have married. That the Reynolds girl thought her money made her special.
Today, she was going to fix this.
She was going to march up to that door, tell Claire exactly what she thought of her little tantrum, and remind her that a good wife knows when to look the other way.
She pulled into the driveway.
And was immediately met by two men in plain clothes who stepped in front of her car, hands on their hips, faces like stone.
Sergeant Major Torres leaned down to her open window.
"Mrs. Collins," he said. "Turn the car around. You are not welcome here. And if you take one more step toward that front door, you will be placed under arrest for trespassing and harassment. Do I make myself clear?"
Eleanor’s mouth fell open.
"Do you have any idea who I am? I am Colonel Collins’s mother. That is my daughter-in-law in there. I have every right—"
"You have no rights here," Torres said. "Not today. Not ever again. Now turn. The. Car. Around. Last warning."
Eleanor stared at him. She looked past him at the house. The curtains in the upstairs window moved. She knew Claire was watching.
She put the car in reverse.
But as she backed out, she rolled down her window one more time and yelled at the top of her lungs.
"THIS ISN’T OVER, CLAIRE! YOU THINK YOUR MONEY MAKES YOU BETTER THAN US? WE’LL SEE WHO LAUGHS LAST! YOU HEAR ME? WE WILL DESTROY YOU!"
Inside the house, Claire stood at the window, holding Liam in her arms. He had been woken up by the yelling.
"Mommy," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Why is Grandma yelling?"
Claire kissed the top of his head.
"Grandma is just confused, baby. Go back to sleep. Everything is going to be okay."
May you like
But as she watched Eleanor’s Mercedes peel out of the driveway, Claire knew.
It was only just beginning.
