Now I could let a question remain open until I was ready to answer it.

I watched the lights reflected on the water and allowed myself the luxury of not planning the next hour.

PART 29: THE LETTER I FINALLY WROTE

On the anniversary of my father’s death, I returned to the storage unit and opened the binder marked Founder Correspondence.

Inside were letters he’d sent to hotel managers over twenty years, each one typed or written in his looping hand.

One of them was addressed to me, dated six months before he died.