“Evelyn,” Priya said, her voice dropping to a whisper.

I turned to look at her.

Her face had gone completely white, her eyes wide with shock.

“What is it, Priya?” I asked, a cold knot forming in my stomach.

She held up the screen so I could see the incoming message.

It was an encrypted file transfer from an unknown sender, originating from Bennett’s private home office terminal.

The file name was a single date—the day my father died.

And below it, a short video clip began to play.

I pressed my thumb against the cold glass of Priya’s screen to steady her shaking hand.

The video was grainy, recorded from the security camera Bennett thought he had disabled in my father’s library.

On the screen, my father sat in his leather armchair, chest rising and falling with shallow, labored breaths.

Bennett stood over him, holding a fountain pen and a single piece of paper.

My father’s hand trembled as Bennett forced the pen into his weak fingers, guiding it across the signature line of the codicil.

When my father collapsed back against the leather, Bennett did not call for help.