Chapter 9 — Down the Steps

My father — the man who had spent his whole life swinging his money like a hammer at anyone he decided was beneath him — was walked down the front steps of the chapel in full view of the news vans that had, somehow, been quietly told where to be.

His protests thinned out and died as the doors swung shut behind him, and the chapel settled into a deep, ringing silence.

My father was gone.

My mother was outside surrendering to a federal task force.

My wedding had been interrupted by thirty veterans, a bag of stolen dog tags, and the collapse of everything my father had pretended to be.