Philip Warren led me into his office, closed the door, and set Grandma’s check on the desk between us. “Mr. Brooks, this check is genuine,” he said. “Your grandmother’s account holds far more than eight million dollars.” I stared at him. Nobody in our family had ever believed she had more than a small pension.

He opened a folder and turned a photograph toward me. It showed my grandfather Raymond beside an oil derrick, grinning, with a sealed letter clipped underneath that bore my name. “Before I explain, there is something you must read,” Warren said. My hands felt numb as I reached for it. Then my phone buzzed on my knee. It was Dad, and his voice cracked in a way I had never heard. “Nathan, where are you? Something terrible has happened to Grandma.”