I did not open the door. Instead, I called the attorney named at the bottom of the letter, Ms. Abara, and she arrived within twenty minutes. Through the glass, Gordon kept smiling and insisted the marriage was a scam, that his brother had been confused and dying, and that I should return everything quietly. Ms. Abara stepped outside and asked him one question: “Would you like to explain the Fairmont account?” His smile slipped.

Back inside, she opened the folder Theodore had left with her and walked me through the truth. Years earlier, Theodore had sold his chemical coating patent, and Gordon, who managed his money, had quietly forged signatures and drained $410,000 into private accounts. When Theodore discovered it, his wife had just died, and he was too heartbroken to fight. He gave up the house, hid the rest of his fortune in a trust, and vanished onto the streets, because Gordon had never stopped searching for it.

The trust had one rule. If Theodore died unmarried, everything passed to his next of kin, which meant Gordon. A spouse, however, would inherit it all. Theodore watched me for two years, and he tested me with his sign, because he wanted someone who would say yes out of kindness, with nothing to gain, and who would also notice if the numbers lied. The month was real. His liver was failing, and he had no time left to find anyone else.

Gordon left when Ms. Abara showed him the forged signatures, and the police met him at the end of the street. He later pleaded guilty and repaid every dollar. The trust passed to me, and I used the $2.3 million to pay the hospice’s unpaid bills, then built a small fund in his name to help people living on the street reach doctors. Every morning I still buy two cups of coffee, one black, and place the second beside a plaque that bears his real name.