My hands trembled as I unfolded the page. It was dated the day before he died. The first line read: “Colette, I lied to you about almost everything except the month.” I kept reading. He wrote that his real name was Theodore Wren, that he had once been a chemist, and that he owned $2.3 million in a locked trust, none of which he had touched since he left his home.

The last paragraph made my stomach drop. “If a stranger comes to your door claiming to be my brother, he is not here to mourn. Do not sign anything, and do not let him inside.” I looked up just as the doorbell rang. On the porch stood a man in an expensive wool coat, holding a leather folder. “Mrs. Wren?” he called. “I am Gordon, Theodore’s brother. We need to talk about what he left you.”