There were six sealed folders, stacked neatly.

There was a small flash drive.

And there was a single handwritten note, folded once, bearing my father’s unmistakable signature.

I watched my brother’s face change — watched the confidence drain out of it and something else move in behind his eyes, something that had not been there a moment before.

I lifted the note but did not unfold it.

“Before anyone touches these documents,” I said to the room, “my father asked that his attorney be present.”