His thumb was touching the edge of a photograph tucked between the pages of the leather notebook.

He slowly pulled it out, his fingers trembling as he held it up to the harsh light.

The photo was small, its corners rounded and worn white from years of being held.

It showed a young man in a faded green jacket, laughing with his arm looped tightly around a radiant Mary.

They were standing in front of a rusty old pickup truck, the Chicago skyline just a distant blur behind them.

It was Ethan, before the millions, before the tailored suits, and before the coldness took over his eyes.

“She kept this,” Ethan said.

His voice was hollow, like he was speaking into an empty well.

“She did,” I said, walking over to stand at the foot of the bed.

“Why?” he asked, looking down at his own young face. “After the way I left.”

“She wanted Lauren to know who you were,” I said.

“She knew who I was,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “A man who chose a boardroom over his own blood.”