“Yes.”
I shook my head.
“No. That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because my father never had money.”
The sheriff nodded.
“Exactly.”
I didn’t understand.
He opened another folder.
Inside were documents.
Old documents.
Contracts.
Patents.
Bank records.
My hands trembled as I looked through them.
The name was there.
Thomas Carter.
My father.
“This invention was sold twenty-one years ago.”
“How much?”
The sheriff looked at me.
“Enough that your father could have lived the rest of his life without working.”
I stared at him.
“But he didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
The sheriff looked toward the family photos.
“Because your father believed money could change people.”
I swallowed.
“He refused the attention.”
The sheriff continued.
“He created a trust.”
“A trust?”
“Yes.”
“For who?”
The sheriff didn’t answer immediately.
Then he looked directly at me.
“For you.”
My mind went completely silent.
“For me?”
“Yes.”
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was impossible.
“My father died with nothing.”
The sheriff shook his head.
“That’s what everyone thought.”
I stood up.
“No.”
My voice became louder.
“My father wasn’t hiding millions from me.”
“Evan—”
“No.”
I pushed away from the table.
“If he had money, why did we struggle?”
The sheriff stayed calm.
“Because he wanted you to grow up differently.”
I stared at him.
“That’s not fair.”
“No.”
His voice softened.
“It wasn’t.”
The room became quiet.
Then he said:
