The lawyer unlatched the briefcase and laid three folders on the white tablecloth, squaring each one with his fingertips. “My name is Daniel Whitfield,” he said. “I handled the purchase of the lake house, and I also received the transfer papers sent to my office four months ago.” My father’s jaw tightened. Tessa’s hand slipped from her fork and dropped into her lap.

Then he opened the first folder and turned it toward me. On top was a deed with my name typed at the bottom, and beneath it, a signature that was supposed to be mine. It was dated in March. I had never been anywhere near that lake in March. I stared at the loops of those letters because I recognized that handwriting. I had seen it on a birthday card every year of my life. Then Grandma whispered, “Colin, look at who witnessed it.”