I drove toward the lake that afternoon with a duffel bag in the passenger seat and coffee cooling in the cup holder. I was still wearing the plain jeans, T-shirt, and light jacket I had changed into before leaving.
No uniform. No visible rank. Nothing that announced who I was or what I did.
That was intentional.
For seventy-two hours, I did not want to be Colonel Carter. I wanted to be Emily—the woman who could sit on her deck, drink coffee from her favorite mug, and watch the water without anyone asking her to make a decision.
The first sign that something was wrong appeared before I reached the house.
Vehicles lined the road near my driveway.
At first, I assumed one of the neighbors was hosting a gathering. Then I turned the corner and saw pickup trucks packed across my property, along with several family SUVs positioned wherever their drivers had found space.
