The thick stacks of Beatrice’s meticulous legal notes sat exactly where I had left them.

There were copies of court transcripts, old insurance forms, and the original letters Arthur had typed on his typewriter twenty-seven years ago.

“She kept everything,” Arthur said.

“She had to,” I said.

“She knew Gregory would try again the minute she was gone.”

I traced my finger over the top page of notes.

My grandmother had spent her whole adult life guarding a settlement meant to protect me.

She had fought her own son in court, endured his hatred, and built a fortress out of paper and bank rules.