“Your grandmother had advanced arthritis in her final months,” he said.

“Her handwriting was shaky,” I agreed. “I have her old letters.”

“Exactly,” Arthur said. “This signature has no tremor. It is smooth, drawn with a steady, calculated hand.”

He tapped the glass of the magnifying tool.

“And look at the ink density,” he said. “The line weight is entirely uniform.”

“That means it was traced,” I whispered.

“Yes,” Arthur said. “This active will is highly suspicious. No court would accept this if we present her medical records from October.”

He sat back, his expression grave.

“But we need the original document to prove the forgery in court,” he added.

I sat on the edge of my bare mattress.

“If my family has the original, they will destroy it,” I said.

“Undoubtedly,” Arthur said.

I looked around my ruined room.

“Who did this?” I asked. “My dad? Brandon?”

“Your father wouldn’t drill a lock himself,” Arthur said. “He pays people for that.”

I stood up and began picking up my fallen books.

Among the papers on the floor, I noticed a folder that didn’t belong to me.