The Daniel Blackwood Foundation launched six weeks later.
Declan had thrown himself into the planning. Meetings with lawyers. Calls with universities. Endless discussions about mission statements and grant distributions. He approached it like any other deal with focus, determination, and an attention to detail that left me breathless.
"You don't have to do all this," I told him one night, watching him review documents at midnight.
"Yes, I do."
"Declan "
"He's your father. He matters." He looked up. "This is the least I can do."
I crossed the room, sat on his lap. "You've already done everything."
"I want to do more." He kissed me. "I want his name to mean something. I want kids to get chances they wouldn't have otherwise. I want" He stopped. "I want to make you proud."
"You already make me proud. Every day."
He smiled. "Good. Now let me finish these papers."
The launch event was at the Kane Tower ballroom.
Hundreds of people. Journalists. University presidents. Donors. My mother in her best dress, beaming. Evelyn with a camera, documenting everything. Margaret coordinating behind the scenes like the genius she was.
I stood at the edge of the crowd, watching it all.
Declan found me there. "Nervous?"
"A little." I took his hand. "This is a lot."
"You deserve a lot." He kissed my temple. "Your father deserves this."
"When did you become so sentimental?"
"Somewhere around the time I fell in love with you." He smiled. "Blame yourself."
---
The speeches began.
University presidents talked about the importance of investigative journalism. Donors talked about supporting the next generation. My mother spoke briefly, emotionally about the man she'd loved and lost.
Then it was my turn.
I walked to the podium, hands shaking slightly. Looked out at the crowd. Found Declan's eyes. He nodded. Smiled.
I took a breath.
"My father died when I was nineteen."
The room went quiet.
"He was an investigative journalist. He believed in truth. In justice. In holding powerful people accountable." My voice steadied. "He didn't die of old age. He didn't die of illness. He was killed because of what he was about to expose."
Murmurs.
"For thirty years, I carried that. The grief. The anger. The need for justice." I looked at Declan. "And then I met someone who helped me carry it. Who helped me find the man who'd helped cover up my father's death. Who helped me look him in the eye and let him know that my father's daughter was still here."
I smiled.
"This foundation isn't about revenge. It's not about anger. It's about making sure that what my father started the search for truth, the fight for justice continues. It's about giving young journalists the chance to do what he did. To ask hard questions. To hold power accountable. To make a difference."
I raised my glass.
"To Daniel Blackwood. To truth. To justice. And to never, ever stopping."
The room erupted in applause.
Afterward, people surrounded me.
Handshakes. Congratulations. Stories about my father from people I'd never met. I listened to all of them, tears streaming down my face.
Declan stayed close. His hand on my back. His presence steady.
When the crowd finally thinned, my mother pulled me aside.
"He would have been so proud," she whispered.
"I know."
"Not just of the foundation. Of you. Of who you've become." She cupped my face. "You're exactly the woman he hoped you'd be."
I hugged her. Held on tight.
"Thanks, Mom."
"Always, baby. Always."
Declan found me later, on the balcony.
"Hidden from your adoring public?"
"Something like that." I leaned against the railing. "That was a lot."
"It was." He stood beside me. "You were amazing."
"We were amazing."
"True." He smiled. "How do you feel?"
"Full. Empty. Both." I laughed. "I keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true." He pulled me close. "This is a process. Healing. Letting go. It doesn't happen overnight."
"I know."
"But nights like this help."
I looked up at him. "They do."
The foundation became my focus after that.
Meetings with potential grant recipients. Reviews of applications. Conversations with young journalists who reminded me of my father passionate, idealistic, ready to change the world.
Declan supported it all. Attended events. Made introductions. Funded projects without hesitation.
"You're spoiling me," I told him one night.
"I'm spoiling your father's legacy. There's a difference."
"You're spoiling me."
"Maybe." He kissed me. "You deserve it."
The first scholarship was awarded six months later.
A young woman named Sofia Reyes. First-generation college student. Aspiring investigative journalist. She reminded me of myself determined, driven, hungry for something more.
We met at the ceremony. She was nervous. I was nervous. We both cried.
"Your father's work inspired me," she said. "I read everything he wrote. He was brave."
"He was." I squeezed her hand. "And now you get to be brave too."
Afterward, Declan found me.
"Happy?"
"Ridiculously."
"Good." He kissed my forehead. "He'd be so proud."
"I know." I leaned into him. "I finally know."