The kitchen in Evanston felt smaller than it had five years ago. The smell of cinnamon and brewed chicory, usually a comfort, now tasted like ash. My mother, Margaret, stood by the marble countertop, her hands trembling as she gripped the edge. The silence that followed her confession was heavier than the heavy oak table between us.

“He didn't die of a heart attack,” Samantha said quietly, looking over my shoulder as I stared at the signature.

I looked up at her, stunned. “What?”

“Think about it, Ethan,” she said, her eyes narrowing as she connected the dots. “Arthur signed the emergency transfer papers on November 15, 2021—the day after Leo was born. If the Attorney General’s office expanded their investigation into the foundation’s financial laundering, Arthur would have been indicted right alongside Eleanor and your mother.”

“He had a heart attack in his office in October 2024,” I argued, my mind racing back to the funeral, the closed-casket service, the heavy rain falling over the gravesite. “I was a pallbearer. I carried the casket.”

“Did you look inside?” Samantha asked.

The question hung in the air like a physical blow.

No.

The casket had been sealed under strict medical directives from the county coroner—a coroner whose campaign for reelection had been heavily funded by the Sterling Foundation PAC.

“We need to talk to Marcus,” I said, reaching for my phone. “If Arthur’s death was as manufactured as Leo’s birth certificate, then he isn't six feet under in Graceland.”

Marcus Vance picked up on the second ring, his gravelly voice cutting through the static.

“I thought I retired, kid,” the old investigator muttered.

“Marcus, I need you to pull the autopsy report for Arthur Vance from October 2024. And check the flight logs for private charter planes out of Midway on the exact same weekend.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.