“Where is he?”
“He left through the main entrance.”
“What did he look like?”
“Older. Gray coat. He walked with a cane.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“Was he the man from my parents’ house?”
“I wouldn’t know, dear.”
Wyatt examined the envelope. My name was written across the front in shaky blue ink.
There was no return address.
Detective Beckett arrived as Wyatt opened it.
Inside was a faded business card belonging to an estate attorney named Samuel Grayson.
On the back were six handwritten words:
ASK ABOUT YOUR GRANDFATHER’S FINAL WILL.
I stared at the message.
My grandfather Harold had died twelve years earlier.
According to my parents, he had left behind little more than medical debt, an old watch, and the house they already lived in.
There had never been a family reading of the will.
No lawyer had contacted me.
No one had ever mentioned Samuel Grayson.
“My grandfather’s estate was settled years ago,” I said.
Detective Beckett studied the card.
“Are you sure?”
“That’s what my parents told me.”
Wyatt pulled out his phone.
“I’m calling the attorney.”
“It’s after midnight,” the detective said.
“I don’t care.”
The number on the card rang twice.
Then a man answered.
