On the back, in my grandmother’s unmistakable sharp cursive, was a single ten-digit case file number.

I stared at the numbers in her handwriting.

I looked back at the forged bank letter on my table.

Gregory had laughed in my face over his cherry pie, so sure the account was completely empty.

But if the account was truly empty, Beatrice wouldn’t have hidden a lawyer’s card inside her prized linen.

I grabbed my wool coat and my car keys.

The drive took forty-five minutes in the heavy morning traffic.