He finally sat across from me. “Yes. The check is real.”

The answer hit so hard I gave a single nervous laugh. Nothing about the moment was funny, but my mind had no other way to process it. He slid the check toward me, one finger still pressed to the corner.

“There’s something you need to understand, though. This isn’t drawn on a standard personal account. It’s a cashier’s check issued from a trust.”

“What trust?”

“The Whitaker Family Preservation Trust.”

I stared at him. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“I’m not surprised,” he said carefully. “The instructions specifically stated that beneficiaries weren’t to be informed until Mrs. Whitaker initiated the distribution.”

“Beneficiaries?” I repeated. “So everyone’s checks were real?”

“Yes.”

I pictured Marcus laughing, Brittany’s airplane in the mashed potatoes, my father tossing his aside like a used napkin.

David leaned forward. “Ms. Whitaker, when your grandmother handed out those checks, she activated a clause in the trust. Each one must be deposited or formally rejected within seventy-two hours.

If a beneficiary fails to act, the distribution is forfeited.”