I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends.

worker.

Or trouble.

He looked like he belonged somewhere else entirely.

Tailored suit. Clean shoes. Perfect tie.

The kind of man who doesn’t usually end up behind restaurants.

“Who wants to know?” I asked.

He pulled out a business card and held it out like we were meeting in an office, not next to trash bins.

“My name is Richard Hartwell,” he said. “I’ve been searching for you.”

No one had ever said that to me before.

“I represent the estate of James Brooks,” he continued. “Your grandfather.”

I scoffed.

“I don’t have a grandfather. He died before I was born.”

Something shifted in his expression — not pity, but gravity.

“That isn’t correct,” he said quietly. “Your grandfather passed away a few weeks ago. And he instructed us to find you immediately.”

The world tilted.

“Why?” I asked.

His eyes flicked to my car.

My clothes.

The alley behind us