I pulled it out and began to read the elegant cursive script of my grandmother’s handwriting.

Just as Julian had said, the terms were clear.

Everything was left to me, with Arthur named as the sole executor.

“This changes everything,” Arthur whispered, reading over my shoulder. “The document your father filed last month was a complete fabrication.”

Before I could answer, a sharp, buzzing sound cut through the quiet room.

It was my phone, sitting on the desk.

The screen lit up with a series of urgent text messages.

I picked it up, my heart racing as I saw the sender’s name.

It was my mother.

The windshield wipers swept back and forth with a rhythmic, irritating squeak.

The streetlights stretched out in long, yellow smears on the wet pavement.

I held my grandmother’s envelope tightly against my chest, the thick paper crinkling under my fingers.

Arthur drove in silence, his eyes focused on the dark road ahead.

My phone vibrated again in my palm, a relentless buzz that seemed to match the pounding of my heart.

“Ava, please,” the next text message read. “The police are inside. They have handcuffs.”