I pulled a manila folder from the bottom of the bag and laid it flat.

Arthur adjusted his glasses and leaned over the document.

He turned the pages slowly, his fingers tracing the margins.

“This is the version filed with the county last month,” I said.

“The one that leaves everything to Brandon.”

Arthur stopped on the signature page.

He pulled a magnifying glass from his inner pocket.

He stared at the ink for a long time without speaking.

The silence in the small room grew suffocating.

“What is it?” I asked.

He looked up at me, his expression grave.

“Your grandmother had a very specific tremor in her right hand during her final months,” he said.

“I know,” I said.

“Her signature was always shaky.”

“Yes,” Arthur said, pointing to the line.

“But look at the pressure of the pen here.”

I leaned closer, squinting at the dark blue ink.

“The strokes are perfectly smooth,” Arthur murmured.

“There is no hesitation, no tremor.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

Arthur picked up the paper, holding it up to the fluorescent light.