My father threw me out on my eighteenth birthday, stole the $3,000 I’d saved from working after school, and used it for my stepbrother. Nine days later, while I was digging through a restaurant dumpster for something to eat, a stranger in an expensive suit called my name and told me my supposedly dead grandfather had left me everything. But there was one condition nobody had warned me about.

The silence answered for him.

I turned away, staring at my battered sedan. The hood was raised, and steam curled into the cold air. Nine days ago, I had been living in a house I thought belonged to my family. Now a stranger was telling me the grandfather I had believed dead had spent years looking for me.

“What was my grandfather like?” I asked.

Richard glanced toward the street.

“Difficult.”

That wasn’t what I expected.

“Difficult how?”

“Proud. Private. Brilliant with numbers. Terrible at apologizing.”

Despite everything, I smiled faintly.

“That sounds familiar.”

Richard gave me a careful look.

“You resemble him more than you realize.”

He reached into his briefcase again and removed a set of keys attached to a plain brass tag.

“Your car won’t get you to Bellmere. I arranged a room at a motel tonight and a rental vehicle for the morning. The expenses will be covered by the estate.”