The company collapsed anyway, and Charles lost everything. He eventually drank himself to death in a cheap motel. Judith, his widow, blamed your grandfather.

And when Everett later built his own fortune through defense contracts, her grief festered into obsession.”

I turned the fragile page. Pasted there was a glossy photo of Grant and me from the night we first met, at a military charity gala in D.C. He’d “accidentally” spilled coffee on my silk dress, apologizing with that charming, crooked smile that had disarmed me.

Next to the photo, my grandfather had written a date in stark red ink: October 14th.

“Look closely at the dates, Tessa,” Calvin urged, tapping the page with a gnarled finger.

I flipped to the next marked section. A folded receipt from the rooftop restaurant where Grant had proposed under a canopy of stars.