At my father’s funeral, my brothers stood beside his coffin and mocked the black dress I had borrowed. “Dad left everything to us,” the oldest whispered. “You’ll leave here with nothing.”

“Was he?”

Before he could respond, the funeral director, Mr. Bell, stepped away from the back wall and locked the chapel doors. The click rang through the room.

My brothers turned.

Behind them stood Dad’s private attorney, Miriam Cole, holding a leather file. Beside her were two detectives in dark suits and a nurse named Celeste Ward, whose face had turned gray beneath the chapel lights. Familyhistory research

Owen’s smug expression vanished. Grant’s hand froze at his cuff link.