At my mother’s funeral, the priest pulled me aside and said, “Your real name isn’t Brooks,” then pressed a storage key into my hand and told me not to go home, and by the time my stepfather texted Come home. Now., I was already driving toward a storage unit with my Army dress uniform still on and a name in my head that hadn’t belonged to me in thirty years.

“They restore accountability.”

“Accountability doesn’t change 1995.”

“No,” I said quietly. “It changes 2024.”

We stood there without speaking for several seconds.

He finally picked up the glass again, but didn’t drink.

“If they offer a plea, I’ll take it,” he said.

That was the closest thing to surrender I’d heard from him.

“You’re not innocent enough to fight?”

“I’m pragmatic enough not to gamble.”

That told me everything I needed to know about his risk assessment.

“You’re doing this for a name,” he said.

“I’m doing this for accuracy.”

He shook his head slowly.

“You’ll learn about what history doesn’t care about your clarity.”

“That’s why records exist.”

He looked at the bookshelf behind me, where framed community awards lined the shelves.

“Reputation matters,” he said.

“So does truth.”

“Truth is negotiated.”

“Not in federal court.”

That ended it.

He didn’t argue further. He didn’t threaten. He didn’t justify. He simply looked at me like he was recalculating a strategy that no longer worked.

Later that evening, his attorney called to confirm discussions with the U.S. Attorney’s Office regarding a structured plea agreement tied to wire fraud and misallocation of federal contract funds.

No mention of the lake.

No mention of homicide.

Just numbers. Just statutes. Just signatures.

I stood in the hallway after the call ended and looked at the nameplate on my Army uniform hanging by the door.

Brooks.

It felt temporary.

Thomas stepped out of his study one last time before heading upstairs.

“You think this gives you peace?” he said quietly.