Webb wordlessly handed him the tags.

Foster looked down—and the world around him fell away.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Where did you get these?”

Sarah straightened instinctively. “They’re mine, sir. They belonged to my father.”

Foster stared at her face—really stared. The shape of her jaw. Her eyes. The way she held herself.

“Mitchell,” he murmured. “James Mitchell?”

“Yes, sir.”