My name is Jenna. I’m thirty-two years old, an Army sergeant, just returned from six months of grueling field training. I drove three hours in the snow to make it home for Thanksgiving.
But I wasn’t welcomed by my husband’s hug. I was welcomed by a freezing house and a stench that hit me like a physical blow.
On the kitchen counter lay a note.
Mom and I went on a cruise. You take care of Victor.
Victor, my terminally ill stepfather-in-law, was on the sofa, starving and shivering in his own filth. They left a dying man to sip cocktails at sea using my house savings.
They think I’m just a soldier who follows orders. They don’t know that before Victor took his last breath, we activated an operation that cost them everything.
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The drive from Fort Bragg had taken longer than expected. The North Carolina winter had decided to arrive early, turning the interstate into a slushy, treacherous mess. But I didn’t care. My hands gripped the steering wheel of my truck, my knuckles white, but my heart was lighter than it had been in half a year.
For six months, I had been sleeping in mud, eating MREs, and shouting orders over the roar of artillery simulators. Now, all I could think about was a hot shower, a glass of red wine, and Brady.
I pictured my husband waiting for me, Brady Mitchell. Even after five years, just saying his name made me smile like a schoolgirl. He wasn’t military. He was soft edges and charming smiles, a real estate consultant who spent more time networking at golf courses than actually selling houses. But I didn’t mind. I was the provider, the protector. That was my role.
I just wanted him to be there.
I pulled into the Walmart parking lot just off the highway, joining the chaotic swarm of last-minute holiday shoppers. The automatic doors blasted me with artificial heat and the sound of Mariah Carey. I navigated the aisles with military precision, grabbing a twenty-pound Butterball turkey, a bag of potatoes, and two expensive bottles of Cabernet.
