"I've carried it 12 years."
"Then you're due a salute."
They returned to the hall together. The clock above the entrance showed a few minutes before two, and the plaque lay beneath a dark cloth beside the stage. Marisol could see the shape of its raised letters through the fabric: a metal story made permanent before all the witnesses had been heard. She wondered whether the families who had contributed to it would forgive her for interrupting the ceremony.
Behind a folding partition, Hollister had gathered Rick and two veterans who treated his account as unquestionable. He had watched Claire's expression in the garden and knew the unknown woman was more dangerous than a rude guest. If she spoke to Claire again, the old questions might return.
"She's a fraud—no ribbons, no unit. She's working Claire for money. Get her out before the general gets here."
Rick checked the battery on his phone. He was already imagining a campaign clip in which Hollister bravely exposed an impostor at a veterans' event. It had not occurred to him that the footage might one day be used for a different reason.
"I'll film it. Good for the campaign."
"Keep it quiet, boys."
But Hollister's idea of quiet involved sending three men into a room full of witnesses. They intercepted Marisol near the hallway, closing off the route back to Table 14. One man stood with his arms crossed, another raised his phone, and Rick held out an empty hand as if expecting documents to materialize in it.
"Ma'am, we need to see your discharge papers. Unit, dates, specialty."
"Why?"
"People claim service they didn't earn at events like this."
"I haven't claimed anything."
Marisol glanced toward the doors and thought of the general still approaching. Her instinct was to leave rather than feed the spectacle, but leaving now meant abandoning Claire to the man who had built a false history around her loss. She stayed where she was and kept her voice measured.
Gene pushed his way to her side. He had spent a lifetime seeing people hide cruelty behind the word duty, and he recognized the expression on Rick's face. His cane struck the tile with a hard, clean sound.
"Leave her be, son. She's done nothing."
"Stay out of it, Gramps."
Hollister joined the group at precisely the moment the cameras angled toward Marisol. He spread his hands as though he were being forced to intervene for the protection of the grieving families. Then he moved close enough to block her from the rest of the room.
"Then prove it."
Marisol began to open her handbag for Boone's written invitation, thinking the simplest document would end the confrontation. Rick reached forward before she could remove it, caught the leather case near the top, and pulled it free. She lunged half a step, not because of its monetary value but because of what she had carried in it all those years.
"Please give that back."
Hollister opened the case before the watching guests. A pair of Army aviator wings lay against old black velvet, the edges dulled from years of handling. He held them up by one side, treating them as if they were a cheap costume accessory, and gave the camera a satisfied look.
"Let's see what you've got. Well, look at this: pilot wings. Ma'am, are you claiming you were an Army aviator?"