I don’t remember the drive home. I kept my emotions on hold, unable to accept what I’d been confronted with in black and white. Before Aaron and I left the bank, the teller made one copy of his inventory sheet for me and a second to be kept in the safe deposit box. She also made a copy of Dace’s will, along with copies of the other paperwork, which she returned to the safe deposit box. Aaron received one packet and I was given the other. Since I was named executor of the estate, she also handed me the original of the will to be submitted to the superior court clerk when it was entered into probate. I intended to contact an attorney as soon as possible because I already knew I was in over my head. I needed legal guidance and I needed help understanding the full impact of this strange turn of events. This was like winning the lottery without buying a ticket. Half a million bucks? Unreal.

Out on the street, Aaron and I shook hands. I have no idea why. There was simply the sense that some agreement had been reached and we’d sealed the bargain with that age-old gesture, denoting courtliness and nonaggression.

He said, “At a totally mundane level, I still have Dace’s sleeping bag. Looks like that belongs to you along with everything else. You want me to hang on to it?”

“No, thanks. I can tell you right now I won’t be crawling into that thing no matter how many times it’s been cleaned.”

•   •   •

Once on my street, I parked, locked the car, passed through the squeaky gate, and went around to the back patio. I let myself in, dropped my shoulder bag on the counter, and sat down at my desk. I opened the file drawer and took out the folder where I kept the photocopy of my parents’ marriage license application. I knew what I’d find, but I needed to see it again nonetheless.

Four years previously, a piece of my personal history had surfaced unexpectedly. In the course of an investigation, a woman I was interviewing made a remark about the name Kinsey, wondering aloud if I was related to the Kinsey family up in Lompoc, an hour north of Santa Teresa. I dismissed the idea, but something about the comment bothered me. I’d finally gone down to the courthouse, where I searched public records and came up with the information my parents had supplied on the application for their marriage license, which listed my father’s date and place of birth, my mother’s date and place of birth, and the names of both sets of parents.

And there it was.