His name had been repeated by people who knew little about the man himself.
Simone answered carefully.
"Not unless the evidence supports it. And you'll have a say in how your family's documents are handled."
Abigail exhaled.
"Thank you."
Three days later, Abigail arrived carrying a cardboard box.
Inside were old report cards, handwritten lesson plans, photographs, two fountain pens, and a collection of letters from former students.
Near the bottom lay a dark-green notebook.
Its cover was worn.
A small tear ran along the spine.
Simone recognized her brother's handwriting immediately.
He had always written numbers with the same distinctive shape.
His sevens had a horizontal crossbar.
His fours were open at the top.
His calculations filled the pages in narrow columns.
At first, the notebook appeared to contain ordinary household budgeting notes.
There were grocery totals, classroom supply expenses, and calculations concerning a used car Daniel had considered buying.
Then the entries changed.
A sequence of dates appeared.
Beside them were towing fees.
Municipal payment references.
Vehicle identification numbers.
And initials.
Daniel had written questions in the margins.
Why does the same contractor receive both payments?
City record doesn't match release receipt.
Check public contract amendments.
Simone turned another page.
There was a name.
Franklin Mercer.
Beneath it appeared a series of figures.
Some matched the photocopies from the anonymous letter.
Simone stopped reading.
Abigail sat across from her.
"Is it important?"
Simone looked at the notebook.
"Potentially."
"Did Dad know something?"
"I think he was asking questions."
"About the people who arrested him?"
"Maybe. But I don't want to jump beyond what the notes establish."
Abigail reached across the table and touched the cover.
"He was always like that."
"Like what?"
"If something didn't add up, he couldn't leave it alone."
Simone smiled sadly.
"He definitely couldn't."
Abigail looked down.
"When I was little, I thought he was being difficult when he made me show my work."
Simone laughed softly.
"He made me do that too."
"He'd say getting the right answer wasn't enough if you couldn't explain how you got there."
Simone stared at the notebook.
The words stayed with her.
Her brother had spent his life teaching children to show their work.
Now, decades after his death, the pages he left behind were asking the adults who had governed his city to do the same.