A training accident in an old report wasn’t as routine as the official language claimed. It had been closed too quickly, by people too eager to stop reading.

When Ronan Vance’s file was reopened, Aria sat alone in a hallway outside a review office and pressed both hands flat against her knees.

For the first time that day, she shook.

Not in the shower room. Not in front of Harlow. Not when Mercer threatened her.

Only then. When her father’s name came back onto a page where it belonged.

A junior officer passing by offered her a paper cup of coffee. She took it, though she didn’t drink. The cup was warm against her palms. It reminded her of Sunday mornings in the driveway, her father wiping oil off his hands and telling her that patience isn’t the same as waiting.