The text came at 2 a.m. like it was good news—my mother casually told me she’d sold my house while I was away, using an old legal document, and spent the money on my sister’s wedding. When I told her to stop the deal, she laughed—called me selfish, dramatic, ungrateful—and said I could “explain myself” at the family reunion.

I was already standing, not remembering at what point I had gotten out of bed. “Sir, Angela and the kids are still there. Rodriguez and Chin were scheduled to hold them in place another three weeks before final relocation.”

“They’re not in place anymore.” His voice had gone flat in the way it did when anger became logistics. “Stay on the line.”

I heard movement at his end: a lamp switched on, a drawer opening, another phone being picked up. Crawford was in his late fifties, former military police, impossible to impress and harder to rattle. He believed in chain of command, polished shoes, written summaries, and the principle that if a thing could get worse, it would do so in direct proportion to how much a civilian had been allowed near it. I trusted him because he was rarely wrong about people and never romantic about institutions.

“Mitchell,” he said, coming back to me, “I’m activating emergency response and witness relocation now. Do not contact your family again. Do not answer them if they call. Preserve every message. I need you on the first flight back to D.C. Then straight to headquarters.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did your mother say who bought the house?”