Trevor laughed — that short, barking laugh he used to do when we were kids and he’d broken something I loved. “Meet who, Hannah? Your imaginary lawyer? You work twelve-hour shifts wiping strangers, you don’t have a lawyer.”
I pulled out my phone and pressed a contact. The front door opened thirty seconds later. In walked Mr. Alvarez — Dad’s actual estate attorney for the last fifteen years — followed by Sheriff Combs, who’d gone to high school with our father.
Trevor’s smile cracked at the corners. “What is this?”
Mr. Alvarez set a thin blue binder on the granite. “This is your father’s real will, Trevor. Filed and notarized eight months before he passed. The house, the land, and the savings were placed in an irrevocable trust. Sole trustee and beneficiary: Hannah. Your father was very specific about why.”
He slid a second document forward — the one Trevor had been waving around. “This, however, is a forgery. The notary stamp belongs to a woman who retired in 2019. That’s a felony in this state.”
The sheriff didn’t even raise his voice. “Son, we can do this quiet, or we can do it loud. Your choice.”
Trevor turned to me, suddenly six years old again. “Hannah. Hannah, come on. We’re family.”
I thought about Dad whispering my name at 3 a.m., asking if Trevor had called yet. He never had.
“You’re right,” I said softly. “We are family. That’s why I’m not pressing the fraud charges today.” His shoulders dropped. “I’m giving you until Friday to check yourself into the rehab program Dad paid a deposit on three years ago — the one you swore you didn’t need. Miss that intake, and Mr. Alvarez files everything.”
Mom let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh.
Trevor opened his mouth, closed it, picked up his forged folder with shaking hands, and walked out past the porch swing Dad built for the grandkids he never got to meet.
I poured my mother a fresh cup of coffee, sat her down at the island, and finally — finally — let myself cry.
