“The line is plumb, Grandpa Arthur,” Daniel whispered into the morning breeze:
“The doors are locked from the inside.”
“The foundation stands upon solid stone.”
“The thieves are in their cages.”
“Sophie is laughing.”
“Garrett is home.”
“The uniform held true.”
“The ledger is closed.”
“And around here…”
We stood up from the chairs, holding Sophie, Garrett, Thomas, and Uncle David’s hands toward the limitless blue sky as the distant chimes of the valley chapel began to strike twelve times across the peaceful water:
“…nobody ever, ever… audits an auditor again.”
Barnaby let out a soft, contented sigh on the porch rug, his tail thumping once against the cedar boards: *thump.*
Garrett laughed into the warm sunlight.
Sophie smiled, watching the soaring eagles.
The white passenger ferries glided across the blue water.
The eagles climbed into the limitless blue sky.
The water ran deep and clear.
The ledger was closed forever.
And the man who had never told his wife’s family he owned the sixteen-point-nine-million-dollar company that paid their salaries—enduring eight years of mockery as a broke handyman while providing for forty-seven ungrateful relatives—had answered their cruelty with the full sovereign authority of the United States Armed Forces, shattered the shadow conspiracy, sent the dynasty to Leavenworth in chains, and reclaimed his daughter along with the defense bedrock of the Republic—finally, beautifully, and eternally free.
