We stepped out of the office building into the biting afternoon air.

A cold drizzle was beginning to fall, darkening the concrete.

Arthur’s black sedan was parked in the corner of the gravel lot.

We got in, and the engine roared to life, the heater blowing cold air before warming up.

The windshield wipers scraped rhythmically against the glass.

“If Marcus notarized it,” I said, staring out at the grey streets, “then my father was in the room.”

“Or Marcus signed off on it afterward, without ever seeing your grandmother,” Arthur replied.

He steered the car through the heavy traffic toward Ellison University.

“Either way, it is a Class C felony,” he added.

I gripped my seatbelt.

My mind raced back to my brother Brandon.

He had been desperate for money for months.

His luxury car, his expensive apartment downtown—it was all a facade built on borrowed time.

My parents had sacrificed my college fund to keep him afloat, and now they were stealing my inheritance.

“Arthur, do you think Brandon forced them into this?” I asked.

Arthur kept his eyes on the wet road.