I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends.

“My dad never mentioned any inheritance.”

“He wouldn’t.”

Richard slid another document toward me.

It was a legal notice.

At the top was the name Brooks Holdings.

Below it were several signatures.

One of them belonged to my father.

“He attempted to have himself declared your grandfather’s only surviving heir,” Richard said.

“But James refused.”

“Why?”

“Because your grandfather had already made his decision.”

Richard pointed to the final paragraph.

“He changed his will.”

I swallowed.

“To me?”

“To you.”

My heart

pounded.

“But why?”

Richard looked at me for a long moment.

“Because your grandfather had been watching you.”

I almost laughed.

“Watching me?”

“Yes.”

“For seventeen years?”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t he ever contact me?”

Richard’s face changed.

“He tried.”

I went still.

“What do you mean?”

“Letters were sent.”

“How many?”

“Thirty-two.”

My mouth went dry.