“Catching up on emails,” I lied.

“Not tonight,” he said firmly, tossing a box of cookies on my desk. “You’re banned from work. Go watch the fireworks like a normal person.”

Outside, the streets had emptied. Families were already gathering lakeside or prepping barbecues. My phone buzzed with photos of nieces and nephews in red, white, and blue—snapshots from a world I wasn’t really part of.

Then came the call.

“Hello?”

“My name is Andrew K. I’m an attorney for Cynthia B.”

I stopped breathing. Cynthia, my foster sister, the only person who ever made our rotating homes feel like they meant something. She’d spent her adult life chasing the one mystery she never gave up on: finding our father.

“Is… is Cynthia okay?”

“I’m afraid she passed away last week. She named you in her will.”

The world blurred. Fireworks burst over the