Chapter 6 - THE NOTEBOOK OF A FALLEN SOLDIER
Mateo Ortiz lived in a modest house outside Fredericksburg.
His front yard was small, his mailbox leaned slightly to one side, and a children's bicycle stood against the porch railing.
It was the kind of ordinary home Lena had dreamed of returning to.
I parked a rental car along the curb.
For several minutes, I couldn't make myself open the door.
Five months earlier, I'd stood in a military cemetery while a folded American flag was placed in Mateo's hands.
Sofia had been beside him.
She'd asked why everyone was wearing such sad faces.
Mateo had knelt down and told her that her mother had been brave.
Now I was about to enter the house where they were learning how to live without her.
I finally climbed the steps.
Mateo opened the door before I could knock.
He was thirty-seven, broad-shouldered, with dark hair beginning to turn gray near his temples.
He looked older than he had at the funeral.
“Mara.”
“Hi, Mateo.”
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then he embraced me.
I hadn't expected it.
The kindness nearly undid me.
“Come inside,” he said.
The living room was filled with photographs.
Lena laughing at the beach.
Lena wearing her uniform at a promotion ceremony.
Lena holding newborn Sofia.
One picture showed the three of them at a county fair, smiling beneath a ridiculous oversized cowboy hat.
I stared at it.
“She hated that hat.”
Mateo smiled faintly.
“She made me buy it.”
A little voice came from the hallway.
“Daddy? Is that Aunt Mara?”
Sofia appeared wearing pink pajamas with tiny white stars.
She had Lena's dark eyes.
The resemblance hit me like a physical blow.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
She ran toward me.
I knelt just in time to catch her.
“You came back!”
Three simple words.
I closed my eyes.
“Yes, honey. I came back.”
She pulled away and studied my face.
“Mommy said you were the bravest lady she knew.”
I tried to smile.
“Your mommy was much braver.”
Sofia considered that.
“Can two people both be brave?”
I laughed softly.
“Yes. They can.”
She wrapped her arms around my neck again.
“Good.”
After Mateo sent her to finish getting ready for bed, we sat at the kitchen table.
He placed an old green notebook between us.
The cover was worn.
Lena's handwriting appeared along the edge.
I recognized it immediately.
She always wrote her name in small capital letters, perfectly straight.
Mateo touched the notebook.
“She used this for personal reminders. Nothing classified. Groceries, birthdays, things she wanted to ask people.”
I opened it carefully.
The first pages were painfully ordinary.
A note about Sofia's school supplies.
A reminder to call her mother.
A grocery list for when she returned home.
Then, near the back, the writing changed.
Movement adjustment approved unusually late.
Source confirmation pending.
Ask Mara whether the notification matches the original coordination.
I stopped.
Lena had noticed the problem.
She'd intended to ask me about it.
But the attack had happened before we could discuss it properly.
I turned the page.
Three names were written beneath a question mark.
One was an administrative officer involved in mission coordination.
Another was a contractor liaison.
The final name was underlined twice.
SLOANE.
I stared at it.
Mateo watched my face.
“You know him?”
“Yes.”
“Is he involved?”
“I don't know.”
He leaned back.
“I've spent five months trying not to hate people I've never met.”
I closed the notebook.
“Mateo—”
“No. Listen.”
His voice shook.
“Some mornings, I want everyone responsible to suffer. I want them to know what it's like to explain to a nine-year-old why her mother won't be coming to breakfast.”
He looked toward the hallway.
“Then Sofia wakes up, and I remember I still have a little girl who needs a father.”
I said nothing.
“Lena believed people could do better than the worst thing they'd ever done,” he continued. “I don't always believe that anymore.”
He looked directly at me.
“But I know she'd want us to find the truth without becoming cruel ourselves.”
I nodded slowly.
That was exactly what Lena would have said.
Mateo pushed the notebook toward me.
“Let the investigators have it.”
“Are you sure?”
“If it helps them understand what happened, yes.”
I promised it would be handled carefully.
Before I left, Mateo told me something else.
Lena had volunteered with a transitional housing program for veterans called Harbor House.
It provided temporary apartments, employment assistance, and support for service members struggling to rebuild their lives.
“She cared about that place,” Mateo said. “A lot of the families had nowhere else to go.”
“Is it still operating?”
“Barely.”
“What happened?”
“Funding disappeared.”
I felt a familiar chill.
“What kind of funding?”
“Federal housing support. They were expecting a major grant, but the payments never arrived.”
I stared at him.
“And now?”
“Thirty-two families could lose their housing.”
I thought of Maya's warning.
Riverstone had allegedly diverted funds intended for veterans.
Suddenly, the crime felt even larger.
My parents hadn't simply stolen from the government.
They'd taken money from families who had already sacrificed more than most people would ever understand.
The following morning, I met Maya and Daniel to arrange the notebook's formal transfer.
Daniel examined the relevant pages.
He stopped when he reached Sloane's name.
“Has anyone else seen this?”
“Only Mateo and me, as far as I know.”
He nodded.
“We'll document how it was recovered.”
I looked at him.
“Daniel, Lena wasn't investigating fraud. She was trying to do her job.”
“Sometimes doing your job means noticing something nobody wanted noticed.”
I thought about that for a long time.
Later that afternoon, I received a call from Cassidy Reed.
The journalist.
This time, Maya had agreed to participate.
Cassidy's voice was direct.
“Colonel Ellison, I'm working on a story about missing veteran housing funds.”
I sat straighter.
“Harbor House?”
“Yes.”
I glanced at Maya.
She motioned for me to listen.
Cassidy continued.
“I've obtained records suggesting Riverstone diverted money from organizations serving military families.”
“Have you verified them?”
“Some. Not all.”
“Then keep verifying.”
Cassidy paused.
“That's exactly what I intend to do.”
I respected that answer.
Then she added:
“There's another reason I called. Someone sent my newsroom photographs from the convoy attack.”
My blood turned cold.
“What photographs?”
“Images that were never publicly released.”
I stood.
“Cassidy, those photographs contain sensitive information.”
“I know. We haven't published them.”
“Then don't.”
She hesitated.
“One image was accompanied by a note accusing you of personally authorizing the movement change.”
I closed my eyes.
The campaign to frame me was getting uglier.
Cassidy's voice softened.
“Colonel, I think somebody wants the public to believe you caused your friend's death.”
My stomach twisted.
“Who sent the photographs?”
“The message came through an anonymous source.”
“Can you identify them?”
“Not yet.”
May you like
Then she said something that changed the direction of the investigation.
“But whoever sent them included a document marked with the same office identification used by Brigadier General Malcolm Sloane.”
