Sign the papers, Grandpa, or we put you in the cheapest home in the

I picked up the pen. Tyler’s eyes lit up like a slot machine. Brittany actually gasped. Linda leaned forward, her coffee forgotten. “Before I sign,” I said softly, “let me get my reading glasses. They’re in the folder.” I slid the manila folder toward me and opened it slowly. Tyler’s smile didn’t move. Not yet. The first page wasn’t a deed. It was a bank statement. Forty-two thousand dollars missing from my savings over six months, every withdrawal traced to Tyler’s account. The second page was a recording transcript. Brittany’s voice, clear as Sunday church bells: “Once the old man signs, we list the farm by Christmas. Two point three million, easy.” The third page was a letter from my attorney, Harold Briggs, dated three weeks ago, confirming that the farm, the mineral rights, and every dollar Margaret and I built had already been placed into an irrevocable trust. Beneficiary: St. Jude Children’s Hospital and the Hensley County Veterans Home. Tyler’s face went the color of skim milk. “Grandpa, wait—” “I’m not finished,” I said. I slid the last page across. A police report. Filed yesterday. Elder financial abuse, forgery, conspiracy. Detective Morales would be arriving at three. I glanced at the rooster clock above the sink. Two fifty-eight. Linda stood up so fast her chair toppled. Brittany was already grabbing her purse. Tyler just sat there, mouth opening and closing like a fish on the dock. “You said you couldn’t remember my name,” he whispered. “I remember everything, son,” I said. “I remember your grandmother teaching you to bake pies in this kitchen. I remember paying off your truck. I remember every birthday check you never thanked us for.” The doorbell rang. I stood up, smoothed my flannel shirt, and walked past them. “The cheapest home in the county,” I said over my shoulder, “has a lovely view, I hear. You three should look into it.”