A cold rain was falling over Chicago, turning the streets into mirrors that reflected the city lights in shimmering pools of gold and silver. George stood at the window of his apartment, watching the droplets race down the glass. It had been two weeks since his last press conference, two weeks since he'd revealed the truth about Richard Sterling's involvement in his father's crimes.
Sam found him there, a cup of tea in her hand. She set it down on the table beside him and wrapped her arms around him from behind.
"You've been standing here for an hour. What are you thinking about?"
George turned in her arms. "I'm thinking about Sarah Whitfield. My father's first wife. We know she was murdered, but we never found out who actually killed her."
Sam's brow furrowed. "I thought your father k
