“Who wants to know?” I asked.
He pulled out a business card and held it out like we were meeting in an office, not next to trash bins.
“My name is Richard Hartwell,” he said. “I’ve been searching for you.”
No one had ever said that to me before.
“I represent the estate of James Brooks,” he continued. “Your grandfather.”
I scoffed.
“I don’t have a grandfather. He died before I was born.”
Something shifted in his expression — not pity, but gravity.
“That isn’t correct,” he said quietly. “Your grandfather passed away a few weeks ago. And he instructed us to find you immediately.”
The world tilted.
“Why?” I asked.
His eyes flicked to my car.
My clothes.
The alley behind us.
He lowered his voice.
“Because,” he said, “he left everything to you.
The house.
The business.
The accounts.
All of it.”
Ten minutes earlier, I’d been wondering if anyone had thrown out food.
