I scrolled down to the second document in the folder.

It was dated three weeks before her death, a time when she was already semi-comatose in the hospice wing.

This one was also titled *Last Will and Testament*.

But the terms were completely different.

The entire college fund was redirected to my brother, Brandon, to be dispersed immediately upon her death.

I zoomed in on the signature page.

My grandmother’s elegant, cursive signature looked stiff and jerky.

The letters were uneven, as if someone had traced them with a heavy hand.

Below her name were the signatures of the witnesses.

One of them was my mother’s sister, Aunt Clara, who had been living in Arizona at the time.

The other was a notary public named Marcus Vance.

I searched my memory for the name.

Marcus Vance was my father’s senior accountant at the firm.

They had forged it.

They had waited until she was dying, written a new document, and signed her name to save Brandon from his creditors.

Downstairs, a heavy door slammed shut.

I heard my father’s voice, raw and furious, shouting at the police officers.