“He is my older brother.”
The word brother felt strange in my mouth.
Too warm for what he had become.
Rachel’s voice stayed even.
“And do you recognize Warren and Judith Moore seated behind him?”
I did not want to look.
But the courtroom needed the truth to have eye contact.
I turned.
My father stared at me with an expression I had wanted from him for years.
Recognition.
Too late.
My mother clutched her empty lap where the purse had been.
“Yes,” I said. “They are my parents.”
Rachel walked closer.
“Commander Moore, did you fail out of the Navy?”
Grant’s attorney stood again.
“Objection. Argumentative.”
“Overruled,” the judge said.
Rachel repeated, softer this time.
“Did you fail out of the Navy?”
“No.”
“Were you dishonorably discharged?”
“No.”
“Were you administratively separated for misconduct?”
“No.”
“Did you ever ask Grant Moore to conceal a failed military career from your family?”
“No.”
My father closed his eyes.
The first layer fell.
Rachel clicked a remote.
A document appeared on the monitor facing the jury.
Forged Discharge Memorandum.
My name at the top.
Lillian Grace Moore.
A false service number.
Fake letterhead.
A signature that pretended to belong to an officer who had retired three years before the date on the page.
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