Chapter 12 - Confrontation at the Altar
From upstairs came the sound of running footsteps.
Jessica had slipped away during our conversation, and suddenly she was standing at the top of the grand staircase—the very staircase where, less than forty-eight hours ago, I had collapsed under the weight of her decorations.
In her hands, she held my grandfather’s vintage wooden military footlocker.
"You want this?" Jessica screamed, her voice cracking with pure, unhinged malice. "You came back for this stupid junk?"
"Jessica, put that down!" Dad shouted, scrambling to his feet.
"No!" she shrieked. "She ruined my life! She took Thomas away from me! She took my dream wedding away!"
Jessica lifted the heavy mahogany box, intending to hurl it down the flight of stairs to smash against the tile below—the exact same drop she had watched me take.
"Agent," I said softly.
Before Jessica could swing the box forward, the MP who had remained quietly by the door moved with terrifying speed. He didn't even draw his weapon; he simply unclipped his stun baton and covered the staircase in three explosive strides.
Jessica saw the cold, professional violence in his eyes and shrieked, dropping the box backward onto the upstairs carpet. She tripped over her own sweatpants, tumbling backward into the hallway wall with a dull thud.
The MP scooped up the footlocker with one arm, inspecting the brass latch. "Item secured, Captain. Undamaged."
"Thank you, Sergeant," I said.
I looked up at Jessica, who was curled into a ball on the floor of the second-story landing, clutching her bruised elbow, crying the ugly, hollow tears of a child whose favorite toy had been permanently taken away.
"You know what the saddest part is, Jess?" I called up to her.
She didn't answer, only glared through her tangled hair with venomous hatred.
"If it had been your wedding day, and you had collapsed on those stairs, I would have carried you to that hospital myself. I would have spent every cent in my bank account to save you."
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I adjusted my uniform jacket, turning toward the open front door where the sunlight was streaming through.
"I’m glad you didn't marry Thomas," I added quietly. "He’s a good man. He didn't deserve to find out what you were when it was too late."
