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.

My father had taken my money from beneath my bed. But perhaps he had been planning to take far more.

I stood abruptly.

“I need to call Richard.”

“He may already know.”

“Then why would he leave this here?”

“Because your grandfather wanted you to see it before the estate was finalized.”

I pulled out my phone.

Richard answered on the second ring.

“Mr. Brooks.”

“Were you aware that my trust was closed before my eighteenth birthday?”

“Yes.”

“And that someone forged my signature?”

“I was aware that the signature was disputed.”

“Disputed?”

“That is the legal term when a document appears valid but the beneficiary denies signing it.”

“Did you investigate?”

“We began investigating.”

“Began?”

Richard was quiet.

“Your grandfather’s health deteriorated before we could complete the process. Then he died.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We did not know where you were.”

“You knew where my father lived.”