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CALIFORNIA, 2011

The shrill ring of my phone pierces the bubble I’d inadvertently put myself in, foolishly believing that it would protect me from the past.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Nicole Forbes? Formerly Nicole Alderton?”

“Who wants to know?” I bark, my suspicions so close to the surface that it feels as if I’m giving away the keys to Fort Knox every time somebody asks me a question.

“My name is Jack Adams and I’m a solicitor here in London.”

Blood rushes to my extremities, making my toes curl and fingertips tingle. Clearly Brad didn’t take my threat seriously enough. “I know what’s going on here,” I say. “You’re wasting your time.”

“I-I’m sorry,” says the man, who I imagine sitting in an office down the road, faking a bad British accent. “I don’t understand.”

“I know what Brad’s been doing, but he won’t win, so you can stop playing this vicious game.”

“I’m afraid this isn’t a game, Mrs. Forbes; I have some rather bad news…”

I wait, silently, for him to dig his own grave.

“It’s about your father.”

I swallow the lump that has immediately formed in my throat as it sinks in that maybe this doesn’t have anything to do with Brad, and that the man I’ve been grieving over the past twenty-five years is now dead.

“I’m sorry to pass on such sensitive news over the phone, but you’ve proved very difficult to track down.”

“H-how did you find me?” I ask.

“I’ll have to admit, you were one of the trickier cases,” he says. “But I had a few clues to go on and I’m not one to give up easily.” He laughs. “And besides, your father wouldn’t have let me. He was most insistent that I was not to rest until I’d tracked you down.” I can almost hear him smiling to himself at the memory.

I choke back tears at the thought of Dad and the fanciful belief that we would one day be reconciled, that the universe would find the right time to bring us together so that we could tell our truths and try to forgive each other. The realization that this will now never happen catches in the back of my throat, but then I remember that this could all be another sick ploy to undermine me.

“How do I know you’re who you say you are and that you’re telling the truth?”

“Well, I don’t really know how to prove that to you,” says the man, “other than I’ve been left very specific instructions to carry out on your father’s behalf.”

“Which are?” I ask, allowing myself to believe, for just one second, that he really might be my father’s voice from beyond the grave. I hold my breath, imagining all the possible scenarios, though none— none —could have prepared me for what he was about to say.

“Your father’s last will and testament expresses that you are the sole beneficiary of his estate.”

There’s a lengthy silence as I wait for him to finish the sentence in a way that will make sense.

“Mrs. Forbes? Did you hear me?”

I laugh inanely. As inappropriate as it is in these circumstances, it’s the only expression my body will allow.

“I can understand you might be shocked,” he says, having clearly experienced this reaction before.

“I-I’m sorry, b-but that’s… I mean… that’s… how can that be?” I can’t even string a sentence together.

“It was his last wish that everything should come to you.”

“Th-that’s impossible,” I choke. “I haven’t spoken to him in almost twenty-five years.”

My mind meets itself coming backward as it traverses all the ways in which this man could possibly have made a mistake. He’s a stranger to me; he might not even have known my father. He could easily have got his paperwork mixed up and called the wrong number on the list. Might he think he’s talking to Cassie?

“I have a sister,” I offer, giving him a get-out clause; a chance to realize his error. “She lives in England.”

“I know,” he says gently. “But she was not bequeathed anything in your father’s will.”

What? My brain feels as if it might explode.

“I’m sorry, but none of this makes any sense,” I say. “Why would he have you go to such lengths to track me down? Why would he leave me anything at all, let alone all of it?”

There are so many questions—none of which I’d normally ask a stranger, but he’s the only chance I have of getting any answers. And I need answers, not only to help me put the past to bed, but to safeguard my future.

“Perhaps that’s why he felt the need to write you a letter,” he says.

“Letter?”

“Yes, he was even more insistent that the letter reached you than the money.”

I fall silent as I imagine what he could possibly have to say to me in death that he couldn’t bring himself to tell me while he was alive. The thought terrifies me.