Just as I prepared to push the door open, my phone vibrated in my pocket.

I pulled it out and looked at the screen, the bright light illuminating my face in the dim hallway.

It was a text message from Marcus Reid, my mother’s long-time estate attorney.

The message read: *Emma, do not sign anything today. I am entering the building now with the updated trust documents.*

At that exact moment, the brass indicator light above the elevator at the end of the hall chimed.

The heavy metal doors began to slide open with a slow, grinding hiss.

Marcus Reid stepped out of the elevator cab.

His gray hair was combed back, damp from the autumn rain outside.

He carried his heavy tan leather briefcase in his right hand.

Marcus looked at me, gave a single, firm nod, and walked past me toward the double doors of the boardroom.

I followed him, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Marcus did not knock; he simply turned the brass handle and pushed the heavy oak doors open.

The conversation inside stopped instantly.