He did not die because of a loose wire in a warehouse he knew better than his own garage.

The priest’s voice floated over us.

“Adrien was a man of service, integrity, and quiet strength…”

My mother, Natalie, sat in the front row, pale as candle wax. She had not worn makeup. My father used to tell her she looked prettiest in the mornings, before she tried to look pretty for the world. Eliza sat beside her, clutching her hand. Twenty-three years old, fresh out of college, still soft in the places life had not punched yet.

I stepped closer to them.

Across the grave, a man in a navy suit watched me over the heads of the mourners. I didn’t know him. He was too far back to be family, too still to be a curious neighbor. His left hand stayed near his waist.

Another man stood by a maple tree with an earpiece tucked beneath his collar.

My jaw tightened.

Kyle had told me not to come unprepared.

Kyle Rowe was thirty yards behind me, pretending to study a spray of white roses. He had flown in the night before after I called and said, “Something’s wrong.”

He hadn’t asked what.

Men like Kyle didn’t need essays. We had survived enough together to hear danger in two words.

His eyes met mine for half a second.

He had seen them too.

The priest closed his Bible. The wind lifted the edge of his robe.

“Amen.”

People shifted. Chairs scraped against damp grass. Someone sniffled. Someone dropped a program. Everyone began moving toward the casket to say goodbye.

That was when I saw the man in the gray suit.

He stood near the cemetery road, hands folded in front of him, silver hair neat, face calm. He did not look at my father’s coffin once.

He looked at me.

Then he smiled.

It was not the smile of a mourner. It was not even the smile of a stranger being polite.

It was the smile of a man watching a door close.

My pulse slowed.

That was how my body reacted to danger. Not panic. Not heat. A cold, steady narrowing of the world.

I leaned toward my mother.

“Mom,” I whispered, “when I tell you to move, you take Eliza and get behind the tent.”

She looked up at me, confused. “Dominic, what are you talking about?”

“Don’t ask. Just do it.”

Her lips parted. Then she saw my face.

She had been a military wife long enough to understand that tone.

Eliza turned, eyes red. “Dom?”

I didn’t answer.

The man by the maple tree touched his earpiece.