Derek leaned close to my ear and whispered: “He’s the reason I died.”
The world tilted on its axis. The sweet scent of wedding flowers suddenly smelled like rot.
My mother rushed forward, her face a mask of confusion and concern. “Clara, honey, what is going on? Who is this man?”
But I couldn’t answer her. My gaze was locked on Paul.
The kind, patient man I was about to marry was staring at Derek with a look I’d never seen before. It wasn’t just shock. It was fear.
“We can’t do this here,” Paul stammered, his voice barely a whisper.
Derek let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “No? Seems like the perfect place to me. A church. A place for confessions.”
He took another step, closing the space between us. I could smell the road on him, the dust and the sweat and something metallic, like old blood.
He was real. This wasn’t a ghost.
The priest cleared his throat, looking utterly lost. “Perhaps we should… postpone?”
Derek ignored him. His eyes, those haunted eyes, never left Paul’s. “You were supposed to be our guardian angel, Paul. Our eyes in the sky.”
Paul shook his head, taking a half-step back from the altar. “It wasn’t like that, Derek. The intel was bad.”
“The intel was perfect,” Derek snarled. “It was the execution that was flawed. Your execution.”
My mind was a whirlwind. Intel? Execution? The photo in Derek’s hand… it wasn’t a lover’s tryst. I remembered that day. Paul had come to our house. He’d introduced himself as a civilian contractor, a liaison helping families understand the risks of upcoming deployments.
