The older man did not look at Ethan el kertati .
He kept looking at me.
More specifically, at the small piece of cloth on my shoulder.
The Ranger scroll.
Around us, the fundraiser tent had gone strangely quiet.
Even the low music drifting from the speakers seemed suddenly too loud.
The man lowered his coffee.
“You were with the Seventy-Fifth?”
His voice carried the careful disbelief of someone who already knew the answer.
“For a while,” I said.
He took another step closer.
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Then his eyes moved to my name tape.
HAYES.
Something changed in his expression.
“Victoria Hayes?”
That caught me off guard.
I searched his face.
He was perhaps in his late sixties, broad through the shoulders despite his age, with silver hair cut close and the patient posture of someone accustomed to waiting for other people to finish speaking.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Have we met?”
He gave a quiet laugh.
“No. But I know who you are.”
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Behind him, Walt Griffin had come closer too.
Walt glanced from the stranger to me.
“You know Victoria?”
“I know the name.”
Ethan shifted beside the mat.
For the first time since this had started, he looked less entertained than curious.
