“I don’t have a grandfather. I mean, I did, but my father said he died before I was born.”
“Your father lied.” Richard said it simply, without judgment, like he was stating the weather. “James Brooks was very much alive until twenty‑three days ago. He spent the last fifteen years of his life trying to find you. When he finally did, six months ago, he immediately changed his will.”
My head was spinning. None of this made sense. I was standing in a parking lot behind a strip mall, wearing clothes I hadn’t washed in over a week, talking to a lawyer about millions of dollars I had supposedly inherited.
“Why would he leave everything to me?” I asked. “He didn’t even know me.”
“That is precisely why he left it to you,” Richard said. “Because he wanted to know you, and he never got the chance.”
