She had to take care of a few things, seeing as how she was going to take some time off from her writing and publicity planning, so we agreed to meet the next day at her hotel. Funny, she didn't seem all that comfortable in East Boston. Who can figure? However, an excuse to meet at the Westin was okay with me.

I looked at my watch. I couldn't believe it was only 2:30. So much had happened in a few short hours. I was anxious to check out my father's attic again to see if there was something else—anything else—related to my grandfather or great-grandfather.

I called Mo and explained that I had to drive to my father's house, and did she know anyone who could fix my door. Turns out she belonged to a whole network of professionals—all female—in different fields. She told me not to worry, that she'd get someone over there to fix it.

So once again I took off for my father's house, my gun in the pocket of my jacket. I felt extremely uncomfortable carrying it. I called my mother and gave her an abbreviated update, but explained that I probably wouldn't have time to stop by.

The two-hour trip was a perfect time for reflection. I could have worked through all the details I knew about everything that had happened up to that point. Or, I could have thought about what I would do next for employment. I did neither. It was just all a little too overwhelming. So, I thought about Sabrina and how attracted I was to her. That took up the whole trip.

I arrived at my father's house close to five, having stopped for some take-out along the way. The house was dark and felt very empty—empty of life, that is. Once inside, I reset the alarm and turned on just about every light in the place. I could never understand in the movies people who ventured into dark houses. Hey, if there is a light, I'll switch it on.

Before making my way to the attic, I decided to check my father's office, hoping I would find something to preclude my having to deal with the attic. But there was nothing there. I turned on his laptop, but like the rest of the house, it was pretty Spartan, with the expected business and household files, as well as a file containing notes for a nonfiction book about South America that he had been working on for almost ten years. I don't think he had ever gotten beyond the note-taking stage for it. But I knew all this. I had checked his laptop right after his death—at that time looking for copies of a will, as well as bank account and investments information. I had found a simple will leaving everything to me, but other than the equity in the house, my father really didn't have much. He spent his money with abandon, going on vacations all over the world and buying expensive gifts for his many girlfriends. There was also no evidence of a hidden safe-deposit box filled with secret files that would explain all the craziness of the past few days.