“These parts were not short-cut into a dumpster, Brandon,” I said, using his name for the very first time. “They were retrieved from a private storage locker rented under your own personal credit card in Chula Vista.”
The room grew so silent that the hum of the ship’s ventilation fans sounded like a distant roaring waterfall. Brandon’s lips parted, but no sound emerged; his clever excuses, rehearsed for family gatherings, had completely failed him.
“Federal agents secured the facility two hours ago,” Harris added, delivering the decisive blow without an ounce of pity. “They recovered four crates of naval hardware alongside shipping manifests addressed to overseas buyers operating through unlicensed brokers.”
Tears sprang into Brandon’s eyes, spilling over his tanned cheeks as his military posture began to sag completely. “Sandra, please,” he whispered, his voice cracking with pure desperation. “You can’t let them do this to me. Dad will die.”Get Parenting Tips