The Truth He Buried With Her Chapter 08

The Truth He Buried With Her Chapter 08

Two hundred people in the room went completely silent.

Somebody coughed. Immediately, the person next to him jabbed him with an elbow.

Colonel Harrington took three items from the pouch and laid them on the table.

He arranged them left to right, and as he set each one down, he said a name.

The first was a KIA notification.

Name: Mitchell Davenport.

Home of record: Sierra Vista, Arizona.

Four years of service. Squad leader, reconnaissance platoon. Place of death: southwestern border.

The second was a letter.

A final letter from Mitchell to Blair.

The envelope was unsealed. The paper’s folds had gone soft in the mail from the southwest.

The third was a classified document.

It bore a red stamp. The classified hold was three months.

Colonel Harrington picked up the KIA notification and read it. Then he set it down and picked up the final

letter.

He didn’t read the whole thing. He read only the last line.

“Colonel, the baby is in your hands.”

He set the letter back down and picked up the classified document, holding it up to the light so the whole room could see the red stamp.

“Before this soldier died, he entrusted his pregnant fiancée to your commander. It was not a private entrustment. It was done before several officers of this unit. I was present myself.”

“The classified hold is three months. During this period, no one is permitted to disclose the facts.”

The room went dead quiet.

Rita’s face had drained of color.

After the meeting, no one moved.

She stayed in her seat, staring straight ahead.

Someone beside her nudged her.

“Ma’am, you were the loudest back then. Maybe you should go up and say something.”

Rita stood up, then sat down again.

After a long while, her lips trembled, and she forced out one sentence.

“I didn’t know.”

Eleanor Harrington walked down from the stage.

Rita looked up at her. Eleanor looked down.

“Now you know.”

Rita stayed in her seat. Everyone around her had scattered, but she sat there for a long while.

Major Sinclair took a few men and drove to the Hartley Textile Mill on the west side to find me.

Margaret Hartley, the factory manager, appeared at the workshop door and called my name.

The sewing machines were thundering. She had to call several times before I heard.

I switched off the machine, pulled off my sleeve guards, and walked to the door, machine oil still on my

hands.

Major Sinclair stood at the mill gate. Behind him were three soldiers I didn’t recognize.

Their uniforms were new, their posture straight. Probably just transferred from Battalion HQ.

Major Sinclair handed me an envelope.

I pulled out the paper inside.

It was a letter written by Colonel Harrington himself.

It was addressed to the family of fallen soldier Mitchell Davenport. The letter was brief-an

acknowledgement that the unit had mishandled Blair Davenport’s resettlement, that the family had suffered for it, and that a posthumous Medal of Honor recommendation had been submitted.

I read the letter, folded it back into the envelope, and returned it to Major Sinclair.

“Ma’am, aren’t you coming back with us?”

“I’m not off work yet.”

Major Sinclair blinked.

He looked at the jeep behind him, then at the rumbling workshop behind me, and rubbed his hands together.

“Ma’am, if you’re not ready to come back, nobody’s pushing. I just wanted you to hear it from me-Colonel Harrington laid it all out at the all-hands today. Rita was there. She looked like she’d seen a ghost.”

I stopped and nodded.

Major Sinclair then pulled another envelope from inside his coat.

This one wasn’t official. It was from Rita. No salutation, only a signature.

Three crooked lines. Some words were crossed out and rewritten.

It said: [Sloane, I don’t know how to say this. Today at the all-hands meeting, I heard about Sgt. Davenport. I know now the baby isn’t Colonel Prescott’s. I’m sorry. I’m not asking you to forgive me. I just wanted to say

it.]

[If you come back, I’ll apologize to your face. Whatever you want.]

The handwriting got shakier toward the end, as if her hand had been trembling the whole time.

I folded the letter and put it in my pocket.

“Tell her there’s no need for any of that. But next time, she should try knowing what actually happened before she decides to destroy someone.”