I followed Martin Sewell down a quiet corridor into a private conference room. One officer remained outside; the other stepped in with us and took up a silent position against the far wall.

Martin placed his leather briefcase on the table, sat across from me, and laced his fingers together.

“Miss Frell,” he said, calm but deliberate, “I’m going to walk you through several things. I need you to hear them in order. Some of this will be difficult, and the sequence matters.”

“Okay,” I replied, my voice distant, like it wasn’t fully mine.

“Raymond Holt passed away eleven days ago. He was eighty-one. He died at home in Simsbury, Connecticut—cardiac failure. Peaceful. His housekeeper was there. He wasn’t in pain at the end.” He paused, giving the words time to settle. “I understand you didn’t know him, and your family didn’t maintain a relationship. I’m not going to tell you how you should feel about that.”

I nodded.

“He found you about four years ago,” Martin continued. “He hired a private investigator to locate you. He was aware of your company and followed its progress from a distance. He chose not to contact you directly. He was advised—and agreed—that reaching out might place you in a difficult position given the family dynamics. So he watched instead.”

“He was watching me,” I said quietly.

“He was keeping track of you,” Martin corrected gently. “There is a difference, though I understand it may not feel that way.”

He opened his briefcase and carefully laid a stack of documents on the table.

“Your grandfather’s estate is valued at approximately 4.7 million dollars. It includes his home in Simsbury, a commercial property in Hartford, two investment portfolios, and several items held in trust. He had no other children. Your mother was his only child, and their estrangement—not entirely one-sided—was acknowledged. He spent the last decade of his life trying, in his own way, to make peace with that.”

“He’s leaving everything to me,” I said. More realization than question.