Gordon slid a printed page across the desk. “Your father returned three months ago with an attorney,” he said. “They requested the account be transferred to your parents as ‘guardians,’ claiming you were mentally unfit.” My hands went cold. “I never agreed to anything.” Gordon nodded. “That is why it was denied. But he left a number, and he called again yesterday morning, asking if the account was still active.”

My phone buzzed on the desk. It was Paige. “Hannah, please come home,” her text read. “Dad is panicking, and I have something to show you.” I stared at it. Gordon quietly slid a second folder toward me. “Before you go anywhere,” he said, “you should read this. Your grandfather left instructions for exactly this day, and they involve your father by name.”