After my talk with Kassian, I decided to resume my treasure hunt, expanding my search to look for a paper trail that might lead me to the diamonds. I headed up to my father’s study, but stopped on the staircase, leaning forward so I could inspect the top step. I’d been walking on it for more than a week now, and I’d noticed the bare spot, but I’d never really examined it. A three-inch square of honey-colored wood shone through the threadbare gray carpet. Had my father’s cane caught on this spot, causing him to tumble down the stairs? Did the bottom of his smooth leather slippers hit the wood patch and send him skidding? Why hadn’t he spent a few of his millions to get new carpet? Why hadn’t he moved to a condo after Mom died, like we’d all begged him to?

I straightened and tried to put the what-ifs behind me. Tried to erase the image I had of my father lying at the base of the stairs, neck twisted at an impossible angle. If I could just focus on the present, the bad memories would fade. The past was irreversible. Painful, but gone forever. Forward, forward, forward. I forced myself forward. I had work to do. I had diamonds to find.

First stop: the filing cabinets in my father’s study. Three four-drawer, battleship gray filing cabinets stood shoulder-to-shoulder-to-shoulder. I’d peeked in them earlier on the off chance the jewelry bag was laying on top, just waiting to be discovered. It hadn’t been. The filing cabinets actually held files.

In the first cabinet, all the folder tabs had similar, real-estate-sounding labels: Alliance Properties, Dunn and Hill Holdings, Reston Towers, Property Development Associates, Ring and Forster Commercial. Inside the thick folders were all sorts of official documents—or at least copies of official documents. Lease agreements, appraisals, contracts, invoices, memos of understanding, property deeds, miscellaneous letters. Hundreds of companies and individuals and lawyers were referenced in the papers, and I was thankful my father had the foresight not to make me executor of his estate. Maybe he did love me more than he let on. Erik would work with my father’s real estate attorneys to get everything squared away. He’d take his share of the fees, and the Hebrew Home would get the lion’s share of the assets. And I wouldn’t have to get involved. Just like my father wanted.

The contents of the second filing cabinet were similar to those of the first, except for the dates on the documents, which predated the records I’d already looked at. A few of the project names were familiar, but most were simply that: names on paper. Like my father, I preferred working with things that were tangible, things I could put my hands on. That was one of the aspects that attracted me to the liquidation business. Desks and computers and boxes of machine screws all had weight and could be touched, pointed to, or carted off in a moving van.

It was obvious my father kept meticulous records. So where were the receipts or appraisals or GIA certificates for the diamonds? Valuables like that didn’t simply appear out of nowhere. Every time I bought a book or pair of shoes, I got receipts, in duplicate or triplicate. Where was the documentation for the diamonds? I sifted through the rest of the cabinet, but my enthusiasm was waning. More of the same.

I slid the bottom drawer closed with a little too much oomph, and the sound echoed in the small study, sending another shock wave through my brain. The Motrin had done a decent job dulling the pain, but every so often a bolt would shoot through my head, catching me right behind my left eye. Served me right for slamming the drawer shut.

I moved on to the last gray cabinet, and at first, I was heartened by the lack of real estate papers. But the feeling was short-lived. The top drawer held household bills: phone, electric, credit cards. Each had its own folder, and the bills were all filed by date, oldest in the back. Very organized. When I paid bills, I threw all of the paperwork into a paper grocery bag. Every year I changed bags. That was the extent of my filing system.

I opened the second drawer and my interest perked up again, if only a little. It held things of a more personal nature. There was a folder containing some brochures about cruises, and another with a few articles my father had clipped from the paper touting European vacation packages. A fat folder held dozens of greeting cards, but I didn’t have the stomach to go through and read any of them, afraid of what emotions might get triggered. There would be time to deal with all of that later. Behind the greeting card folder was one marked “Josh,” in my father’s precise handwriting.

I removed it from the drawer and set it on my lap. I wanted to put it aside, to jam it back into the filing cabinet and slide the drawer shut, but I couldn’t, the tug too great. I flipped it open and suppressed a chuckle. All my grade-school report cards stared back at me. Most recent on the top, all the way back to kindergarten. Hey, you never knew when these might come in handy. You never knew when you might get into a throwdown with a buddy and have to pull out your kid’s thirty-year-old report cards to prove your worth as a parent. I shoved the folder back into the cabinet. My father amused me sometimes. Would I amuse my children after I died?

The doorbell rang and I was glad for the interruption. Maybe it was a Jehovah’s Witness, and I could engage him or her in a lengthy discussion about some esoteric religious symbol or the meaning of life. Or whatever it was they espoused. That would distract me for a couple hours.

My visitor wasn’t a Jehovah’s Witness—it was Carol Wolfe from the Hebrew Home. “Hello. Please, come in,” I said, stepping back.

“Hello, Josh.” She entered, and I noticed her glance linger on the floor of the foyer. Was it my imagination?

“May I take your coat?”

She shook her head. “No thanks. I won’t be staying long.”

“Okay.” I had no clue why she was here. Maybe she had some pictures from the dedication ceremony she wanted to show me.

She stood in the foyer, hands in her coat pockets. Her face remained impassive as she searched for what she wanted to say. Negative vibes floated through the air.

“Sure you wouldn’t like to come in? Have a seat?” I smiled, trying to put her at ease. Clearly, she had something on her mind. And if I had to guess, it was something I didn’t want to hear.

Her veneer cracked, and a smile appeared, but it wasn’t a happy one. “Josh, I haven’t been completely forthcoming with you. Your father was a wonderful man …”

I braced for the “but.”

She reloaded. “He was a wonderful man, and we’d gotten to know each other quite well during the past two and a half years. We …” The basement door slammed, and she paused, looking around.

“That must have been Kassian leaving.” No surprise registered on her face, but I clarified it for her anyway. “He lives here. In the basement.”

She nodded slightly. “Yes, I know. This is difficult for me,” she said, talking faster as if she were being timed and only had a few seconds to say what she wanted to. Needed to. “Your father and I were in love. He wanted to keep things discreet because he didn’t want his philanthropic activities at the Home to be misinterpreted. I went along. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I did. I wanted to tell you a long time ago, but …” She searched my face for a reaction, but I’m sure my shock was obvious. “I’m sorry, Josh. So sorry.”

“I … I don’t know what to say.” My father had a girlfriend?

“We were going to be married. In the spring.”

Another jolt to my solar plexus. “You and my father were engaged?” I glanced at the diamond ring on her finger.

Carol brought a hand out from her coat pocket and dabbed her nose with a tissue. “We were going to tell you. You have to believe me.”

I stared, dumbfounded.

“Like I said, he wanted to be discreet. But he was going to tell you. He promised me.”

The way she kept saying it made me suspicious. “Uh huh.”

“Your father loved you Josh. He might not have shown it in traditional ways, but he loved you. You have to know that.”

I wasn’t sure what to believe. My headache returned, pounding its hello. Jumbled thoughts jostled to gain purchase. “How long did you say you’ve known my father?”

Carol jammed her hand back into her pocket. Stood up a little straighter. “We met when your mother was with us. At the hospice.”

“Oh. And when did you start ‘dating’?” An edge had crept into my voice, and I knew it, but was powerless to change it. Not that I wanted to.

“Josh, please. It wasn’t like that. Abe was devastated by your mother’s illness and he needed someone to talk to. We went for coffee a few times and I listened. Helped him cope. That was all. It wasn’t until after …” She stopped and her face flushed. It was a long moment before the red tinge ebbed.

I narrowed my eyes on purpose. “Until after she died that you swooped in?”

She stepped back and removed her other hand from her pocket. Held it out to me. “Here’s a house key. I thought you might want it back.” She left the key in her outstretched hand for me to take, but I made no move for it. I knew I was being a jerk, but I couldn’t help myself. It was as if I were watching the scene unfold from above through the wrong end of a telescope.

Carol’s lips squeezed together as she held the key out to me, arm stiff. After a moment, she relaxed her posture. “I’ll just put it back on the hook with the spare.” She moved past me into the kitchen. I followed, but stopped at the entrance and watched her slip the key ring onto the empty hook by the telephone.

She noticed me observing and didn’t say anything, but her features tightened. She walked back toward me and I moved aside, giving her a clear path to the door. When she reached it, she turned back. “Josh. I’m sorry that you found out this way. We should have told you much sooner. But I’m not sorry about loving your father. He was a wonderful man and I will miss him dearly.”

As she opened the door to leave, the sunlight sparkled off her diamond earrings.