My Fiancé Was Reported Killed in France in 1918 — Then I Heard His Voice Threatening a Woman in a War Office and Saw a Boy With His Exact Eyes
The War Relief Bureau building was quiet, the usual daytime clamor replaced by the distant rumble of a streetcar on Chestnut Street. I sat at my desk, the only light coming from a single green-shaded lamp, its glow reflecting off the polished oak. My fingers, still aching from clutching Thomas’s small coat, traced the lines of Julian’s deployment orders.
It was nearly midnight.
I pulled open the ledger for the USS Leviathan, the transport ship Julian’s unit was supposedly on. I ran my finger down the passenger manifest. His name, Lieutenant Julian Montgomery, was not there.
A cold dread spread through my chest, colder than the late October air seeping through the old windows. He hadn’t been on the ship. The “casualty” at Château-Thierry was a lie.
I kept digging, moving through Quartermaster Depot ledgers. I found entries for supplies — grain, fuel, uniforms — far beyond what a single unit would need. My eyes snagged on familiar handwriting: Julian’s signature.
Forty thousand dollars.
The amount screamed at me from the page. Payments diverted to shell corporations, signed off on by Julian himself, *after* his official “death” date. He wasn’t dead. He had used the chaos of war to vanish, taking government funds with him.
A floorboard creaked behind me. I spun around, my heart hammering.
Arthur Montgomery stood in the doorway, a shadow in his neatly pressed uniform. He wasn’t smiling.
“Still working on those old records, Caroline?” His voice was smooth, but an edge of warning tightened it. “Some things are best left alone.”
My hand instinctively covered the ledger. “These are vital for pension claims, Arthur. Irregularities need to be reported.”
He stepped closer, his shadow falling over my desk. “These are classified war assets, Caroline. You, as a mere clerk, shouldn’t be scrutinizing them so closely.”
He reached for the ledger. His fingers, surprisingly strong, brushed mine as he tried to pull it away.
“Report anything you think you’ve found,” he said, his eyes narrowed. “And you’ll find yourself dismissed for tampering with military files. For insubordination.”
I pulled the ledger back, holding it tight against my chest. The chill in the room became a frozen certainty.
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