“Grammie, who are the people in that picture frame?” my ten year-old granddaughter, Katelyn, asked as she and her seven year-old sister climbed into sleeping bags to spend the night in the loft at our house. Katelyn was pointing to black and white pictures of my grandparents and my parents, all who died before she and her sister were born. As I tucked the girls in and explained who each person was in the picture, Katelyn whispered in my ear, “Wasn’t your dad murdered?” Katelyn’s mother, my daughter, never knew her grandfather—my dad. My father was a California highway patrolman …
