“Your grandfather left you his entire estate. Four point seven million dollars in assets, including a house, investment accounts, and a small business. But there is one condition.”
I stared at the man in the expensive suit, certain I was hallucinating.
I hadn’t eaten in two days. I’d been sleeping in my car for nine nights. I had just spent the last hour digging through a dumpster behind a strip‑mall restaurant somewhere in the United States, looking for anything edible that hadn’t completely spoiled.
And now this lawyer, this pristine man with his leather briefcase and his silk tie, was telling me I had inherited millions from a grandfather I never knew existed.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice cracking from disuse. “I think you have the wrong person.”
“Are you Nathan James Brooks, born March fifteenth, son of David Brooks and the late Michelle Brooks?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then I have the right person.”
He smiled, but it was a professional smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.
“My name is Richard Hartwell. I represent the estate of your grandfather, James Brooks. He passed away three weeks ago and named you as his sole heir.”
