While my grandfather lay d\*ing, my parents and sister never visited—not once.

My father chose a restaurant he knew I couldn't afford.

It was the kind of place with no prices on the menu and staff who refilled your water before you noticed it was low.

He was already seated when I arrived, jacket on, tie straight, looking like a man attending a business lunch rather than a conversation with the daughter he had tried to erase from her grandfather's estate twelve hours earlier.

I sat down across from him and put my phone on the table, screen down.

He glanced at it.

"No recording devices, Genevieve.

I think we can manage a conversation without that."

"Of course," I said.

I left the phone where it was.

The recorder Pelham had given me was in my jacket pocket, already running.

My father ordered mineral water and waited until the server left.

Then he folded his hands on the table and looked at me the way he always had — like I was a problem he was deciding how much effort to spend on.

"You found documents," he said.

"I understand that.

And I understand how they might look to someone who doesn't have the full context."

"Tell me the context."

"Your grandfather was not well, Genevieve.

For the last three years, his judgment was compromised.

He was making financial decisions that would have devastated the estate — bad investments, impulsive giving, a significant sum he nearly transferred to a charity that turned out to be fraudulent.

We stepped in to protect him.

To protect what he'd built."

"By forging his signature."

His jaw tightened.

"By managing assets he was no longer capable of managing responsibly.

Everything that was moved is still in the family.

It was always going to come back to the family."

"To your shell companies."

"To structures that protect the family from estate taxes and probate delays.

This is standard practice, Genevieve.

Any estate attorney will tell you the same."

"Raymond Vance told you the same thing," I said.

"In an email.

In 2019.

Right after he replaced the original trust document in the file."

The mineral water arrived.

My father didn't touch it.

"What do you want?" he said.

"I want to know about Arthur Pelham."

Something moved behind his eyes.

"Where did you hear that name?"

"Grandfather's files."

It wasn't true — Pelham's name hadn't appeared in any of the documents.

But my father didn't know what I had and hadn't read.

He picked up his glass, set it down without drinking.

"Pelham is a complication," he said carefully.

"He and your grandfather had a business arrangement that ended badly.

He has a grudge.

If he's been in contact with you, he's using you."

"Or Grandfather trusted him."

"Grandfather trusted everyone.

That was his flaw." He leaned forward slightly.

"Genevieve.

I'm going to be direct with you.

You have copies of documents that, taken out of context, look damaging.

I know you've uploaded them somewhere.

I'm not going to insult you by pretending otherwise." He paused.

"I'm prepared to offer you a settlement.

A significant one.

Enough to buy a home, fund your retirement, and then some.

In exchange, those copies are deleted and this conversation ends here."

I looked at him.

Thirty-seven years.

He had been my father for thirty-seven years.

I had spent six months sleeping in a hospital chair so that his father wouldn't die alone, and he had spent those same six months filing property transfers and coaching Chloe on where to sign.

"How much?" I said.

He named a number.

It was large enough that I understood, for the first time, exactly how much they had taken.

"I need to think about it," I said.

"Give me until tomorrow evening."

He relaxed.

Not completely — but enough.

"That's reasonable."

I picked up my phone and stood.

"One question before I go."

"Go ahead."

"The name you whispered on the phone last night.