The morning sun streamed through the windows of George's Chicago apartment, casting warm light across the kitchen table where he sat with his coffee. The diary lay open in front of him, the worn pages filled with his mother's handwriting. He'd read it cover to cover so many times that he'd memorized entire passages. But still, something nagged at him. Something he'd missed.
Sam walked into the kitchen. She was dressed for work, her hair pulled back. She looked at George with concern.
"You're up early again."
"I couldn't sleep. I keep thinking about the diary. About what my mother wrote."
Sam sat down across from him. "What did she write?"
George looked up. His eyes were tired. "She wrote about Derek Holloway. About how he was more involved than anyone knew."
Sam leaned forward. "What
