Two hours after my grandfather died, my aunt tackled my mother over the Cartier bracelet still on his wrist. Seven adults in black were tearing his bedroom apart—thirty-seven gold bars in the closet, forty if you asked Denise, ledgers spread across the bed, the safe hanging open. Then Uncle Tom announced there was no will. Four hundred million dollars, and no one knew who controlled the estate. I was ready to walk away. I work in health law; I don't believe in ghosts or signs. But when I looked at Grandfather, his pinky moved. A quarter inch. Then stillness. The email said he'd signed something that morning. I had watched him stop breathing at 5:14 p.m. So I said, on the record: call the nurse, and call the police. Because a dead man cannot sign. And someone in this room is lying.