Out of the black sedan stepped a silver-haired woman in a navy suit, carrying a leather folio. “Good morning,” she said calmly. “I am Judge Eleanor Marsh, retired, and I presided over your grandparents’ estate.” Tessa’s smile cracked. The man in the expensive suit lowered his briefcase. I led everyone to the dining room, where a county investigator named Mr. Ortiz sat beside a laptop and a stack of certified records, and I gestured to the empty chairs.

“Please sit,” Judge Marsh said, and nobody argued. She opened the folio. “Three weeks ago, a complaint reached my old court about a forged debt schedule and a deed filed with a notary who died last year.” Mom’s hand tightened on her purse. Dad stared at the table. Then Mr. Ortiz pressed a key, and Tessa’s own voice filled the room.