Her brother flipped the Christmas dinner across the room because she wouldn't let him borrow her truck for his "alpaca business," right before she called her accountant to cancel her family's entire financial safety net.

The attorney's name was Arthur Pendelton, and his voice sounded like it had been preserved in formaldehyde since 1952.

"Mr. Oscar Bennett?" he asked formally.

"Speaking."

"Mr. Bennett, I am the executor of the estate of your late great-uncle, Silas Bennett, who passed away on December twenty-second."

I frowned, leaning against the station locker banks. "Great-Uncle Silas? I haven't seen him since I was ten years old. I thought he lived in upstate New York and raised goats."

"Alpacas, actually," Pendelton corrected dryly. "Though his livestock ventures were somewhat more successful than your brother's. Mr. Silas Bennett left behind a rather unusual final will and testament, and according to public records, you are his closest living relative who isn't currently facing municipal trespassing charges."

My antenna went up. "What kind of will?"

"Uncle Silas died with a significant estate: a four-hundred-acre timber farm, two commercial rental properties in downtown Albany, and a liquid portfolio valued at approximately 1.4 million dollars."

I nearly dropped my phone. "One point four... million?"

"Indeed. However, your uncle was eccentric. He inserted a very specific contingency clause into his testamentary trust regarding his surviving family members."

I felt a cold drop of dread form in my stomach. "What contingency clause?"

"Uncle Silas was well aware of your family's financial dynamics, Mr. Bennett. He kept tabs. He knew your father was perpetually bailing out your brother's hair-brained schemes, and he knew you were footing the bill for the household."

"Get to the point, Mr. Pendelton."

"The will stipulates that the entire 1.4 million dollar estate, along with the properties and timberland, is placed in a conditional trust. For you to inherit the primary executorship and full disbursement rights, a twelve-month probate and accountability audit must take place. During this period, none of the beneficiaries—specifically your parents and your brother—may receive a single cent of direct financial bailout from the estate or from you."

I stared at the locker door. "If they ask for money and I give it to them?"

"The entire estate goes to the New York State Alpaca Breeders Association."

I burst out laughing. It was a wild, barking laugh that made Lieutenant Miller look up from his paperwork across the room.

"The Alpaca Breeders Association?"

"Your uncle had strong opinions on fiscal responsibility," Pendelton said smoothly. "Furthermore, the will mandates that for the next year, you must personally oversee a mandatory financial literacy bootcamp for your brother, or forfeit fifty percent of the liquid assets."

"You want me to teach Trevor financial literacy?"

"Think of it as community service with family members, Mr. Bennett. The reading materials have already been mailed to your apartment. Good luck."

The line went dead.

I stood there for a full minute, holding the phone against my ear, listening to the dial tone.

My great-uncle Silas—a man I barely remembered—had dropped a 1.4-million-dollar landmine into my life, wrapped in wool and wrapped around a financial probation order.

If my family found out about this, they would descend on me like locusts. If they didn't find out, and I managed to survive twelve months without giving them a dime while teaching Trevor how to balance a checkbook, my life—and my retirement—would be completely secured.