Jenna leaned toward me. “That’s Uncle Frank. Mark’s uncle.”
I nodded politely. “Ma’am,” I said to the aunt beside me, then, “Sir,” to Frank.
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Evening.”
Conversation started harmlessly. Wedding flowers. Traffic on I-66. A cousin’s delayed flight from Chicago. Mark’s father complained about catering prices. Jenna’s mother asked if anyone needed more rolls.
I answered when spoken to and kept my water glass near my right hand.
Halfway through the meal, after the salad plates had been cleared and the chicken came out glossy with herbs, someone asked, “So, Evie, what exactly did you do in the Navy?”
Part 2
The question came from Mark’s younger brother, Tyler, who had spent most of dinner leaning back in his chair like the room belonged to him. He was twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven, with a gold chain at his collar and a grin that arrived before his thoughts did.
I set my fork down carefully.
“A little logistics,” I said.
Mark chuckled. “Logistics. See? Desk job.”
Jenna’s smile tightened.
Uncle Frank did not move.
Tyler’s grin widened. “Come on, don’t be modest. Were you one of those people who yells on ships? Or did you just file stuff?”
“A little of both.”
“Did you ever see combat?”
The table shifted.
That was the thing about people who had never been near violence. They asked about it like asking whether you had tried a restaurant downtown.
“Tyler,” Mark’s mother said lightly. “Don’t interrogate the poor girl.”
“Poor girl?” Tyler snorted. “She’s Navy. She can handle it, right?”
I looked at Jenna.
Her eyes were pleading now. Not for me to defend myself. For me to stay quiet.
And that was when I noticed Mark watching her.
Not affectionately.
Measuring.
His fingers rested on the back of her chair, not touching her shoulder, but close enough to claim it. Jenna leaned half an inch away without realizing.
Something cold moved behind my ribs.
Tyler lifted his glass. “So… you’re in the Navy? What’s your nickname?”
A few people laughed before I answered.
I should have lied.
I had lied before. I had said “Evie.” I had said “Lieutenant.” I had said nothing at all.
But the room, the smugness, Jenna’s strained smile, Mark’s hand hovering like ownership over my sister—it all pulled something old and dangerous to the surface.
“Mad Dog,” I said.
Uncle Frank froze mid-sip.
The laughter died so quickly it was almost funny.
His glass stayed halfway between the table and his mouth. His pale blue eyes locked onto mine, and in that second, I knew he knew. Not everything. Nobody knew everything. But enough.
Tyler blinked. “Mad Dog? Seriously?”
Mark barked out a laugh. “That’s adorable.”
Uncle Frank lowered his glass.
“Apologize,” he said.
Tyler looked around, confused. “What?”
Frank’s voice dropped. “Now.”
Mark’s father shifted in his seat. “Frank, what’s gotten into you?”
But Frank was staring at Mark.
Not Tyler.
The groom’s smile faltered. “Uncle Frank, relax. We’re joking.”
“No,” Frank said. “You’re not.”
The chandelier hummed above us. Somewhere upstairs, the dog scratched at a door.
Mark’s face had gone pale in a way no joke could explain.
I looked from Frank to Mark.
And then I saw it.
A small scar near Mark’s left wrist. Crescent-shaped. Half-hidden by his watch.
My stomach turned over.
I had seen that scar before.
Not in Fairfax. Not at dinner. Not in any happy place where families gathered over roast chicken.
I had seen it under red emergency lights, in a shipping container outside Djibouti, on the wrist of a man wearing no insignia, no name, and a black mask pushed up just enough for me to remember his mouth.
My fingers curled around my napkin.
“Mark,” I said quietly. “Were you ever stationed near Camp Lemonnier?”
Jenna looked sharply at him. “What?”
Mark laughed too fast. “No. I work in defense contracting, Evie. You know that.”
“I didn’t ask where you worked.”