“It is Arthur,” Wyatt said.

I looked at him. “Arthur Bennett?”

“He says he is waiting at our lawyer’s office downtown,” Wyatt said, reading the message.

“Why is he there at this hour?” I asked.

“He said he found something in his safety deposit box,” Wyatt replied.

“The box he hasn’t opened since my grandfather died?” I asked.

“Yes,” Wyatt said, his eyes bright. “He told Marcus it is the certified original copy of the will.”

A cold shiver ran down my spine.

“If he has the original,” I whispered, “then the copy my parents filed in probate…”

“…is a complete forgery,” Wyatt finished.

“We need to go,” I said, already moving toward the exit.

We walked out into the rain again, the cold air smelling of wet asphalt and car exhaust.

Wyatt drove quickly through the quiet streets of downtown Columbus.

The brick buildings of the short north district looked dark and empty.

Our lawyer’s office was located in a renovated warehouse near the river.

When we walked inside, the office was warm and smelled of old paper and coffee.