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“Sir, I found your son beside the dumpster outside your mansion,” a soaking wet little girl said as she handed over a crying baby wrapped in a black trash bag. The billionaire, declared sterile twelve years earlier, didn’t panic. He stared into the child’s eyes and asked, “Who sent you here to play this sick game?” The little girl pointed a trembling finger at the top of the grand staircase, whispering, “The lady who told us to throw him away.”

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a long time ago.”

Dexter. I nodded slowly, the weight of the name settling into the room.

Later that afternoon, the storm broke into a suffocating, humid drizzle. I drove Charlee to a high-end luxury shopping concourse in the city center to procure winter coats, proper footwear, and infant supplies. The surreal nature of pushing a platinum-plated stroller continue reading …

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