The first was an antique leather-bound journal with a worn strap holding its covers shut, the second was a heavy envelope with my name, Melissa Gordon... written on it in neat (if old-fashioned) cursive hand. The letter inside was typed on expensive heavy-weight paper that had the company watermark in the center of the page. The letter explained that the law firm had been retained by a small, independent museum to find and return the accompanying diary to the nearest living heir of the doner.. It was her father and the news wasn’t good.“Ruthie, dear, what’s the matter?” I asked her, not giving up the game just yet, but I already knew the answer.“Daddy ... died. He’s gone, Isaac. My father’s dead! I’m all alone now!” Ruth sobbed, but I insisted that wasn’t the case.“No, Ruthie, you’re not alone. You got us. You got me, okay? We’re not giving up on you and you’re not going to give up on life. Sell your place and move in with me, baby girl. You’re mine now, baby. I’m taking you in and. More

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