At first, Ryan smiled politely, the way people do when they’re bracing for someone else’s family tension. Then his gaze dropped to my shoulder and lingered.
I watched the shift happen.
“Is that your current patch?” he asked quietly.
I glanced down at the subdued insignia most people assumed was just another law enforcement emblem. “Yeah. Joint task force liaison. Why?”
Ava snorted. “Please don’t encourage her. She loves this stuff.”
Ryan didn’t look at her. “Grace, what years were you attached?”
The room went still.
Mom looked between us, confused. Dad stopped cutting his steak. Ava laughed again, thinner this time.
“Attached to what?” she asked. “Ryan, what are you doing?”
He stepped back from the table, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on the patch. Then he snapped to attention so fast Mom gasped.
“Ava, stop,” he said sharply. “Do you know what that patch means?”
She stared at him. “It means she works some county job and thinks she’s in an action movie.”
His jaw tightened. He looked back at me, suddenly measured. “Ma’am,” he said more quietly, “were you on Task Force Sentinel in Kandahar in 2016?”
I hadn’t heard that name out loud in years.
My fork slipped from my hand. “Yes.”