I took the flash drive from her hand. My fingers were so cold I could barely grip it.

I went straight to my Buick, sat in the driver’s seat, and opened my laptop. I plugged the drive into the USB port.

There were three folders. The first one contained emails from Claire’s personal account, asking Brenda about her rates for “discreet services.” The second folder contained PDF copies of the forged will.

But it was the third folder that made my stomach completely drop. It was a video file, dated October thirteenth.

I clicked play.

The video was shot inside Dad’s room at the nursing facility. The lighting was dim, just the harsh fluorescent light from the hallway shining through the half-open door.

Dad was lying in bed, looking thin and frail under the white blankets. His eyes were open, but they were vacant. He was staring at the ceiling, murmuring to himself.

Claire was standing over him. She was holding a clipboard with the document attached to it. In her other hand, she held Dad’s gold-plated retirement pen.

“Just sign here, Dad,” Claire said in the video. Her voice wasn’t warm. It was businesslike, cold.

“Where is your mother?” Dad muttered, his voice weak. “Is she coming back from the store?”

“Mom is gone, Dad. Just write your name here. Right on the line,” Claire said, her voice rising with impatience.

Dad shook his head weakly, his hand limp. “I don’t know my name. I want to go home.”

Claire let out a sharp, irritated breath. She grabbed Dad’s hand, forcing his fingers around the gold fountain pen. She physically dragged his hand across the paper, guiding the pen to write his signature.

“There,” Claire said, pulling the clipboard away. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Now go to sleep.”

I sat in my car, staring at the screen as the video looped back to the beginning. Tears were hot on my cheeks, but inside, I felt a hard, cold anger.

She had used his own retirement pen, the symbol of his forty years of hard work, to steal his legacy while he was calling for our dead mother.

I closed the laptop. I called David and Sarah. Then, I called our lawyer, Mr. Vance, and the Toledo Police Department.

Two days later, we met at Dad’s house on Oak Street. Claire had already moved in. She had placed a dumpster in the driveway, and she was busy throwing out Dad’s old belongings.

When we pulled up, she was carrying a box of Mom’s old china out to the curb.

“What are you guys doing here?” Claire asked, standing on the porch with her hands on her hips. “This is my property now. You’re trespassing.”