“Because I need to know whether the people who say they’re family would still treat me like one if they thought I had nothing.”
She studied me for a long moment.
Then she nodded once.
“That,” she said, “is unfortunately a reason I understand.”
Two weeks later, by the time I claimed the prize, I had become a ghost.
The trust had a name—Harbor Crest Holdings. It had directors who weren’t me, a registered agent who wasn’t me, layers of legal insulation that made the money untouchable in any way that could be traced back to Ethan Carter, janitor, basement tenant, disappointment. California released a brief statement saying a resident of San Diego County had claimed the jackpot anonymously. That was all.
And the next morning, I woke at five, put on my blue work shirt, drove to the office, and mopped floors at NorthStar Systems.
Why NorthStar?
Because that’s where my father worked.