“Yes,” I said, stepping back. “She left it to me. To protect the people who lived there.”

I watched his eyes move across the page, watching the realization sink in.

“I was twenty years old, Nathaniel,” I said. “I was terrified and alone.”

“But the lawyers,” he muttered, shaking his head. “The estate transition was handled by the firm.”

“Your lawyers never saw this,” I said. “Because I was told if I ever showed it to anyone, I would end up in prison.”

“Who told you that?” Nathaniel asked, his voice suddenly dropping to a dangerous whisper.

“The man who said he was acting on your family’s behalf,” I said.

“Arthur Dunleavy.”

The name hung in the air between us, heavy and toxic.

Nathaniel looked down at the paper, then back up at me, a profound shock blanketing his features.

“That is impossible,” he said, his voice barely audible.

“He came to my apartment the night Elena died,” I said, the memories rushing back like cold water.

“He told me that if I tried to claim the property, the Graves family would ruin me.”