Inside the envelope was a sheet in his handwriting:

“If you’re reading this, don’t hand the notebook to any Whitaker or to Vincent.

Find Joan.

Ask who ordered the payments, not just whose name appears on them.”

There was also another letter, yellowed, mailed from Madison, Wisconsin, years earlier.

I recognized the name at the bottom: Helen.

My mother.

According to my father, she had died in an accident when I was five.