Vincent had always said he worried about me being home alone, so he'd installed cameras in the living room and the bedroom. That way, he said, he could see me anytime.
I scrolled to today's footage.
Three in the morning: nothing in the frame.
Seven: I got up.
Eight: my mother-in-law came in. She circled the bedroom, opened the drawer of my vanity, rifled through it, then opened the nightstand.
Then she stopped at the bundle of red cloth.
She unwrapped it, lifted out the medal, held it up to the light, slipped it into her pocket, and walked out.
The whole thing took less than five minutes.
I saved the clip to my phone.
Then I opened my browser and typed one line.
“how many years for destroying a Medal of Honor”
When the results loaded, my hands were shaking.
Stealing, seizing, or destroying a hero's medal, commemorative badge, or similar items is punishable by up to three years' imprisonment, detention, supervision, or deprivation of political rights; in serious cases, three to ten years' imprisonment.
I pressed the phone to my chest and closed my eyes.
My father had been gone nine years.
I remembered the last time he came home, how he crouched down and held me and told me he was going somewhere very far away, and that I should listen to my mother.
He never came back. And then my mother left me too.
Now even the last thing I had left of them was gone.
I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling.
The baby kicked.
I laid my hand over him while the tears slid down my cheeks.
“Baby, I'm sorry.”
My phone buzzed. A message from Vincent.
“Elena, Mom says you've locked yourself in the room. Don't do anything rash. If something's wrong, come out and talk.”
I didn't reply. Another message came.
“I know you're angry, but it's already done. Making a scene won't change anything. Life goes on. Don't ruin the peace over a dead object.”
I sent back one line: “You knew all along, didn't you?”
A long time passed before he answered.
“Mom mentioned it to me. I thought she was only talking. I didn't think she'd actually take it.”
I laughed.
And while I was laughing, the tears came again.
I made a call.
“Hi, I'd like to schedule a termination.”
“How far along are you?”
“Five months.”
The line went quiet for a second. “At five months it would have to be induced. The procedure carries higher risk. Are you sure?”
“I'm sure.”
“All right, I'll register you. Tomorrow at nine in the morning, does that work?”
“Yes.”
I hung up and dialed another number.
I'd kept this number for ten years. I had never once called it.
It rang three times before someone picked up.
“Hello? Who's this?”
“Uncle Jacob James, it's me. Elena.”
The line froze for a couple of seconds.
“Elena? It's you! It's been so long. How are you?”
Uncle Jacob was an old comrade of my father's. I'd seen him at the memorial service, and before he left he'd given me this number.
He wasn't just Uncle Jacob anymore. He was Director James now.
The moment the call connected, the tears poured down my face.
“Uncle Jacob, my father's medal. Someone stole it and destroyed it.”
For three seconds there was silence on the line. Then that steady voice shot up, nothing left in it but shock and disbelief and rage.
“What! The captain's Medal of Honor, destroyed? Who did this?!”
“Where are you right now? I'm coming with my men.”
