My mother, Eleanor, was leaning against the passenger door, her hands clutching her leather handbag.

She looked small against the backdrop of the massive gray hangars.

I walked quickly toward her, the gravel crunching beneath my boots.

“Mother,” I said. “What are you doing out here?”

“Gregory left for his attorney’s office in San Francisco,” she said.

Her voice was thin, barely carrying over the distant roar of a jet engine.

“He told me I had to choose, Natalie.”

“He told me if I stayed with you, I would end up with nothing.”

I reached out and took her hand. It was cold despite the heat.

“What did you tell him?” I asked.

She looked down at our joined hands, her lips pressed into a tight line.

“I didn’t answer him,” she said.

“I just got into my car and followed you.”

She looked up at the tan folder tucked under my arm.

“Is that what Daniel died for?” she asked.

“Part of it,” I said.

“This shows Gregory is trying to stop the investigation right now.”

“We need the letters Daniel sent you, Mother.”