For eighteen years, Everett Langston had believed he was doing the right thing. The sensible thing. The thing wealthy men called responsibility when they were too frightened to face grief directly.
Every month without fail, ten thousand dollars had been transferred into an account bearing his granddaughter’s name. Not a donation. Not charity. A promise. A structure meant to protect a child he believed was safe.
Eighteen years of consistency. Over two million dollars.
And the girl in the photograph was sleeping on a metal cot.
Everett pushed his chair back so abruptly it struck the wall behind him, the sound sharp and undignified. His executive assistant appeared instantly, concern already forming on her face, but Everett didn’t look at her.
“Clear my schedule,” he said, his voice rough, stripped of polish. “Cancel everything.”
Caleb was already standing, coat in hand. He had known Everett wouldn’t sit with this knowledge politely.