Chapter 11 - Bring the Stars
The location on my phone was not a building.
It was a cemetery.
I drove there alone.
At least, that was what the person who sent the message wanted me to believe.
The road narrowed as I moved farther away from the city. Bare trees leaned over the pavement, their branches scratching against the windshield whenever the wind shifted. My headlights caught patches of wet leaves, old stone walls, and once, the rusted remains of a farm gate hanging open over a ditch.
I kept one hand on the steering wheel.
The other rested near the pistol beneath my jacket.
The message remained open on my phone.
Come alone.
And this time, Mara, bring the stars.
Your mother is already there.
I had read it so many times that the words no longer looked real.
My mother was dead to me in a way I had never admitted out loud.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
She had spent twelve years grieving my father beside me.
She had sat through the funeral.
She had held my hand when the coffin disappeared beneath the earth.
She had watched me build a career out of discipline because she believed discipline was the only thing grief could not take.
And now my father's number had told me she was waiting somewhere in a cemetery at midnight.
I parked beside an abandoned maintenance shed.
There were no lights.
No cars.
No movement.
I stepped out.
The cold hit my face immediately.
I looked across the rows of graves.
“Mom?”
Nothing.
I walked farther.
A narrow path led toward a small stone chapel surrounded by dead grass.
Then I saw her.
She stood beside a black SUV.
Older.
Smaller.
But unmistakably my mother.
For a second, I forgot how to breathe.
She looked at me.
“Mara.”
My voice came out barely above a whisper.
“You knew.”
She closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
“You knew he was alive.”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
I walked toward her.
“You let me bury him.”
Her face broke.
“I let you believe he was buried.”
“That is not the same thing?”
“No.”
“Then tell me the difference.”
She looked away.
“There were people watching you.”
“I know.”
“You don't.”
I laughed once.
It wasn't humor.
It was exhaustion.
“My father has been sending me messages from the grave, people have been tracking me for decades, my identity has been compromised, and some man named Sloane thinks he owns the government. I think I've earned the right to know what was happening.”
Mom stepped closer.
“I was trying to keep you alive.”
“You let me think my father was dead for twelve years.”
“Yes.”
“You stood over a coffin.”
“Yes.”
“You watched me cry.”
“I cried too.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“It is the only answer I have.”
I stared at her.
Then I saw what was in her hand.
A small metal case.
My heart stopped.
“What is that?”
She held it toward me.
“Your father told me to give you this only if you ever received the message.”
I took it.
It was old.
Scratched.
Military issue.
There was no marking on the outside.
I opened it.
Inside were two medals.
Silver.
Star-shaped.
My two Silver Stars.
I stared at them.
“How did you get these?”
“They've been in our house for years.”
“I thought they were in my military records.”
“They are.”
“Then why do you have them?”
“Because these aren't the ones in your records.”
I looked at her.
She swallowed.
“Your father had the original medals duplicated.”
I stared at the stars.
One had been awarded after the operation that had nearly killed me.
The second came years later.
I remembered the ceremonies.
The photographs.
The handshakes.
The speeches.
I remembered believing those medals belonged to the past.
Mom shook her head.
“Your father said the stars were never decorations.”
“Then what are they?”
“A promise.”
I turned one over.
There was a line of tiny engraved numbers along the edge.
I frowned.
“Those aren't my citation numbers.”
“No.”
“What are they?”
“The first set is a date.”
I looked closer.
The second was a sequence of letters.
N-S-04.
My stomach tightened.
“Northstar.”
Mom nodded.
“He told me that if you ever needed to understand what he had done, you would need the stars.”
“Understand what?”
“That he never stopped watching.”
A voice came from the chapel.
“He never stopped protecting you either.”
I turned so quickly that my hand went to my weapon.
A speaker crackled beside the door.
Then I heard it.
My father's voice.
“Mara.”
I froze.
Mom didn't move.
The speaker clicked.
“You have ten minutes.”
“Where are you?”
“Not where you think.”
“Dad?”
Silence.
Then:
“Your mother knows why.”
I looked at Mom.
She was crying.
I felt something inside me fracture.
“Then tell me.”
Mom shook her head.
“I can't.”
“You've had twelve years.”
“I had twelve years to keep you alive.”
“From who?”
The speaker came alive again.
My father's voice was quieter this time.
“From me.”
I stared at the chapel.
“What does that mean?”
No answer.
Instead, the door behind my mother opened.
A man stepped into the doorway.
Not my father.
Mercer.
His jacket was soaked, his left arm wrapped in blood-stained fabric.
I raised my pistol.
“You followed me.”
“No.”
“Then how did you get here?”
“I was told to.”
“By whom?”
Mercer looked at my mother.
She closed her eyes.
He said quietly,
“Your father.”
I almost laughed.
Everyone knew my father.
Everyone apparently served my father.
Everyone except me.
“Why should I believe you?”
Mercer reached into his coat.
I raised the weapon.
Slowly, he removed a photograph.
He held it toward me.
I didn't lower the gun.
“Look.”
I stepped closer.
The photograph showed my father standing outside a hospital.
Alive.
Older.
Thinner.
But unmistakable.
Beside him stood a woman.
My mother.
The date was twelve years ago.
The day of his funeral.
I looked at Mom.
“What the hell is this?”
She finally answered.
“That photograph was taken three hours before the funeral.”
My mouth went dry.
“Then who was in the coffin?”
She looked at me.
“No one you were ever supposed to identify.”
The speaker crackled again.
“Mara, don't trust Mercer.”
Mercer looked up.
“I expected that.”
My father's voice continued.
“Don't trust Wren.”
Mercer went pale.
“Don't trust Hale.”
A pause.
“Do not trust anyone who tells you I died for you.”
The speaker went silent.
I stared at the stars in my hand.
Then my father's voice returned one final time.
“And whatever happens tonight, Mara…”
I waited.
“Do not let your mother open the final archive.”
The speaker died.
I turned slowly toward my mother.
She looked at me.
And for the first time in my life, I saw fear on her face.
Not fear for me.
Fear of me.
“What did you do?” I asked.
May you like
Mom whispered,
“Everything your father was trying to stop.”
