The admiral opened the paper and handed it to me.
The handwriting was unmistakable. Short sentences, no wasted words. Just like him.
If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t get the chance to explain things the way I wanted to. What I left behind isn’t just mine. It never was. But I trust you to do the right thing with it. The key will lead you there. Don’t let them take it.
I read the last line twice. Don’t let them take it. Not don’t let anyone. Them. Specific. Known.
My father stepped forward. “We’ll go together,” he said. Not a suggestion.
I folded the paper carefully and looked at him. Really looked at him, maybe for the first time since walking into the room. “No,” I said.
He stopped. “What do you mean, no?”
“I mean I’ll handle it.”
He studied me for a long moment. Then he asked, quietly, “You think you can just walk out with that?”
“I think Grandpa wanted me to.”
The admiral said nothing. He didn’t need to. I tucked the key and the note into the inner pocket of my jacket, turned, and walked out. I felt my father’s eyes on my back all the way to the door, and the fact that he didn’t follow me, that he simply let me go, was somehow more unsettling than anything else that had happened that afternoon.
