Sometimes it does.

Sometimes it belongs to people whose existence never appears in press conferences.

I closed the folder slowly.

“How many survivors confirmed?”

General Hale hesitated.

“Unknown.”

The patio suddenly felt too small.

Too exposed.

Around us, country club conversations slowly resumed in awkward murmurs, but people still glanced toward our table constantly.

My father leaned toward me.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

His face hardened slightly.

“We just started brunch.”

I stared at him.

And for a second, despite everything else happening, I saw my entire childhood in that sentence.

Your feelings are inconvenient.

Your life is secondary.

Your purpose is to sit quietly and make everyone else comfortable.

General Hale spoke before I could.

“Mr. Whitmore, with respect, national security emergencies don’t wait for dessert.”

Nathan gave a low whistle.

Mom looked pale now.

“Claire,” she whispered, “are you in danger?”

I softened slightly toward her.

“No more than usual.”

General Hale almost smiled at that.

My father still looked trapped somewhere between denial and embarrassment.

“You’re telling me my daughter handles… space missions?”

I stood carefully and closed the folder beneath my hand.

“I handle recovery operations when things go wrong.”

Frank stared.

“What kind of recovery operations?”

The general answered calmly.

“The kind involving astronauts who may not officially exist.”

That shut everyone up again.

A server approached nervously with fresh coffee, clearly sensing the tension.

Nobody touched it.

I reached for my purse.

General Hale glanced subtly toward the parking lot.

“We should leave.”

That tone mattered.

Military personnel communicate entire paragraphs through tone.

Something was wrong.

“You expecting media?” I asked quietly.

“No.”

Worse answer.

Much worse.

I followed her gaze casually.

Three black SUVs had just entered the country club driveway.

No government plates.

Windows tinted too dark.

My instincts sharpened immediately.

General Hale spoke without moving her lips much.

“You weren’t followed here?”

“No.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

Her jaw tightened slightly.

Not good.

My father noticed the vehicles too.

“Friends of yours?”

Neither of us answered.

Ryan Mercer’s name flashed again through my thoughts.

Elias Mercer.

Missing in orbit.

God.

Ryan didn’t even know yet.

I pulled out my phone.

No signal.

That stopped me cold.

Country clubs outside Columbus did not suddenly lose cell reception coincidentally.

General Hale saw my expression.

“You too?”

I nodded once.

The SUVs parked slowly near the entrance.

No hurry.

Professional.

Disciplined.

Not federal.

Nathan laughed awkwardly.

“You two are acting like we’re in a spy movie.”

Then the first man stepped out.

Tall.

Gray suit.

Military posture hidden beneath civilian clothing badly enough that only trained eyes would notice.

I recognized him instantly.

And my blood went completely cold.

Director Adrian Shaw.

Defense Intelligence Agency.

One of the most dangerous men in Washington.

General Hale muttered under her breath.