That was the pattern. Delphine attacked. I retreated. Delphine performed. I stayed quiet. Delphine told everyone in our family that I thought I was better than them because I had joined the Navy at 18 and never came home.
And I let her tell that story because correcting it would have required explaining why I never came home. And I was not willing to explain that to people who had already made up their minds.
But on June 3rd, 2025, at 0947, the pattern broke.
I was standing near the brow of the destroyer with my clipboard, going through the initial safety walk with Master Chief Ivo Kettleman and a civilian project manager named Rosalind Vega. We were discussing corrosion on a specific mooring cleat when I heard heels on the concrete behind me.
Heels on a working pier are unusual. Heels moving fast are alarming.
I turned around because Master Chief Kettleman’s eyes had gone wide and his hand had drifted toward his radio. Delphine was walking toward me with the specific expression she used to wear when we were children and she had decided I had taken something of hers.
Her hair was blown back from the humidity, and her mouth was already open before she reached me.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she started, loud enough that two contractors on the pier turned to look. “You actually showed up here. You actually did it.”
I set my clipboard down on a nearby equipment crate very carefully. In 19 years of service, I had learned that the first thing you do in an unexpected situation is remove anything breakable from your hands.
“Delphine,” I answered, keeping my voice level. “This is a secured work area. You need to step back.”
“Don’t you Delphine me.”
She was close now. Close enough that I could smell her perfume, the same jasmine one she had been wearing since high school.
“Bram told me you would try something like this. He said you couldn’t stand that I was working the Kellerman retirement event today. He said you would find a way to insert yourself.”
I had no idea who Kellerman was. I had never heard the name in my life, but I could see very clearly that Delphine had constructed an entire narrative in her head during the drive over, and she had arrived at Pier 12 fully prepared to perform it.
“I’m working,” I told her quietly. “I need you to leave the pier now.”
“Working?”
She laughed, and it was that same bright, brittle laugh she used at family dinners when she wanted everyone to know she was about to say something cruel.
“Working in your little costume with your little clipboard in front of my clients. You couldn’t just let me have one day, could you, Marlo? You couldn’t just stay in your lane.”
Master Chief Kettleman had stepped forward slightly, and I gave him the smallest headshake.
Not yet.
She was my sister. I would handle it.
“Delphine, I’m giving you one more chance to walk back to your vehicle.”
That was when she grabbed my bag.
It happened faster than I expected. My leather work bag was sitting on top of the equipment crate next to my clipboard, and she snatched the strap with the practiced quickness of an older sister who had spent our entire childhood taking my things.
She held it up like a trophy, spun on her heel, and marched to the edge of the pier.
“Delphine, do not—”
“Do not what, Marlo? Do not embarrass you? Isn’t that what you came here to do to me?”
“That bag contains federal property. Put it down.”
She looked at me over her shoulder, and I watched the smile spread across her face. I knew before her arm moved what she was about to do.
The bag arced through the air. It hit the water flat, made a sound like a slap, and began to sink almost immediately because of the weight of the tablet inside.
Somewhere behind me, a young sailor whispered, “Oh my God.”
The NCIS agent, whose name I would later learn was Special Agent Corbin Ashford, quietly pulled a small notebook out of his jacket pocket.
Delphine turned back to face me, chin up, waiting for my reaction. She wanted tears. She wanted shouting. She wanted the version of me she had spent 37 years constructing in her head, the little sister who could be made to feel small.
I did not give her that.
I looked at Master Chief Kettleman and said calmly, “Master Chief, please contact the harbor patrol and request dive recovery for a lost item containing sensitive material. Also, contact the base security office and request an escort.”
“Aye, Commander.”
Delphine’s face changed when she heard the word commander.
Just a flicker. Just a small crack in the performance.
I saw her eyes drop to the silver oak leaf on my collar, then to the name tape over my right pocket, then back up to my face.
She had never actually looked at my uniform before. Not once. Not at any promotion, not at any ceremony, not at Mom’s funeral. She had refused to look because looking would have meant acknowledging.
“What did he just call you?” she asked, and her voice had gone thinner.
“He called me by my rank.”
“Your rank?”
“Commander, United States Navy. I am the officer in charge of this inspection. Every person on this pier, every contractor, every sailor, every civilian is here because I authorized them to be here. And you just committed a federal offense in front of all of them.”
The color drained out of her face in stages. First her lips, then her cheeks, then her forehead.
Behind me, Special Agent Ashford took a step forward and cleared his throat gently.
“Commander Prescott,” he offered. “With your permission, I’d like to have a conversation with this individual.”
“She’s my sister.”
“Understood. My question stands.”
I looked at Delphine. She was staring at me like she had never seen me before, and in a very real sense, she never had. She had constructed a version of me in her mind when we were children, and she had refused to update it for three decades.
The woman she had thrown a bag at did not exist. The woman standing in front of her did, and that woman was about to become the worst problem of her entire life.
“Permission granted,” I answered.
And that was how the morning of June 3rd, 2025, began.
Special Agent Ashford was very polite when he asked Delphine to step over to the pier office with him. And Delphine was very much not polite when she refused.
She told him she did not have to speak to anyone, that she had rights, that her sister was overreacting, and that if he touched her, she would sue the entire United States government.
Ashford listened with the patient, blank expression of a man who had heard every version of this speech a thousand times, and when she finished, he simply repeated his request.
This time, two uniformed masters-at-arms had appeared behind him, and Delphine’s protests dropped in volume by about 50%.
I did not watch her go.
I had an inspection to run and a piece of equipment to recover, and letting Delphine occupy any more of my attention than she already had would have been a professional failure on my part.
I picked up my clipboard, walked back over to Master Chief Kettleman and Rosalind Vega, and asked Rosalind if she could pull up the digital backup of the corrosion assessment on her tablet so we could continue without the physical binder.
Rosalind, who was a former enlisted Marine and did not fluster easily, nodded once and pulled her tablet out of her own bag.
“I have everything from the pre-inspection brief backed up to the secure cloud, ma’am. We can keep moving.”
“Thank you.”
Master Chief Kettleman, who had been in the Navy for 26 years and had seen a great many things, was doing his best to keep his face professional. I could see the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Master Chief.”
“Ma’am?”
“Something amusing?”
“No, ma’am. Absolutely not, ma’am.”
“Good. Let’s continue with the mooring assessment.”
We continued.
The dive recovery team arrived within 40 minutes, which was actually impressive response time, and by 10:30, they had located my bag in about 18 ft of water and brought it up in a mesh recovery net.
The leather was ruined. The tablet was almost certainly ruined, though the security team would need to physically destroy it regardless of whether it powered on. The paper documents were pulped.
I signed the recovery form, initialed the chain-of-custody log, and made a mental note that I would be spending most of my evening writing an incident report.
Around 11:15, my phone rang. It was Captain Odel Bramwell, my direct commanding officer, and I already knew what she was calling about because news of a woman throwing a naval commander’s bag off a pier in front of 11 sailors travels through Naval Station Norfolk at approximately the speed of light.
