No recordings existed. The explanation was neat. Convenient. And about as believable as counterfeit money.

My next stop was the county sheriff’s office. I was still in my travel clothes, my military ID tucked in my back pocket, because I wasn’t ready to reveal that part of myself.

Sheriff Don Harper greeted me with the polished smile of a man who had spent decades sounding sympathetic without saying anything useful. “Ms. Turner.”

Not Lieutenant Colonel. Not Colonel. Just Ms. Turner. That choice told me everything. He already knew exactly who I was, and had simply chosen to ignore it.

“I understand you’re upset,” he said. “But based on what my deputy found, it appears your mother may have fallen.”

“A fall?” I kept my voice perfectly even.