The damp gravel crunched under my boots as I followed Helen through the heavy iron gates.

The air inside the courtyard was cold and smelled of wet stone and decaying ivy.

I stared down at my phone, my thumb hovering over the PDF of the land transfer agreement.

My father’s signature looked genuine, the elegant cursive loop of the letter W exactly as I remembered it from my childhood.

“He did what he had to do to keep the roof over this place,” Helen said, her heels clicking on the marble steps of the portico.

She did not look back at me as she spoke.

“He knew the Whitaker name was a hollow shell without Caldwell money to back it up.”

“He wouldn’t have signed away the entire legacy,” I said, my voice shaking slightly in the autumn chill.

“He did,” she replied, reaching for the brass handle of the heavy oak door.

“And now Grant is going to finish what your father started.”

She pushed the door open, revealing the warm, wood-paneled lobby of Whitaker House.

Dina sat behind the reception desk, her eyes wide and anxious.