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 was open in front of him again, the worn pages filled with his mother's handwriting. He'd read it 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 in a neat ponytail. She looked at George with a mixture of love and 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 another partner. Someone my father worked with. Someone no o
