I looked at Rosa.
She was reading over Gabriel’s shoulder, her expression growing more serious with every line.
“Me?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“You were ten years old. He had hoped to live long enough to explain everything when you were older.”
I looked at the signature at the bottom of the page.
Alexander Hale.
My father’s name.
The handwriting was unmistakable. I had seen it on permission slips, birthday cards, and notes he left in my lunch bag. The letters leaned slightly to the right, as if they were always hurrying toward the next word.
My throat tightened.
“Does this mean I own everything?”
Gabriel shook his head gently.
“It means your father wanted to protect you. The trust is managed by adults until you reach the age specified in the documents. That does not mean you are expected to run a company or make decisions about property. It means no one can simply take what he left for you.”
