Owen slid a faded envelope into my hands. “My father’s name was Daniel Brooks,” he said. “He built Whitmore Industries with your father, and your father pushed him out with a forged buyout. He died broke when I was two. I found the papers when I turned twenty-one, and I never told you because I was afraid you would look at me differently.”

Before I could speak, headlights swept across the curtains and a car door slammed in the parking lot. Through the gap, I saw my father in his long gray coat, standing beneath the buzzing motel sign with a leather folder. Three sharp knocks shook the door. “Claire,” he called, his voice cracking. “Open up. I need you to hear this from me first.”