oe

r facade of the Tucker estate behind me. The cold autumn drizzle misting ag

uter boulevard intersection

rply. I pulled it up to my eyes. A text message from a

infant hospital transfer record #0824. My name is Walter. I am waiting at the no

tal transfer

d found in Robert Tucker's private server. It was the only concrete proof I had that my birth here was a li

mmered agai

htly and accelerated my pace

low of the corner streetlamp. But parked directly beside it-acting as a rugged, unassuming decoy-was

, his posture straight as an iron blade. When his steel-gray eyes caught mine through the falling mist, a look of

heavy, high-powered hum of a W

out toward the Sinclair gala-cruised past the intersection, slowi

tered, rusted Ford pickup truck and the older gentleman in his faded ja

e mist. She leaned out further, looking down her nose at me. "Chloe, is this your grand exit? Did yo

"An ungrateful daughter, crawling right back into the filth where she belongs. You think a rusted

upon me-the identity they used to conceal whatever monstrous crime they committed the day I was born. They had no idea that t

their screeching

, Walte

ut. He didn't

lacing his broad frame directly between the car and me

and radiated such lethal authority that both women choked on their laughter, freezin

vulgar syllable escapes your mouth regarding the sole heiress of our dynasty, I will ensure that all bus

iver rattling her spine beneath his star

g them like invisible dust on the asphalt. He reached down, took the heavy duffel bags fr

his head with absolute reverence. "The night dampness is h

or open, stepped onto the runner,

ith a deep growl, and the truck accelerated smoothly into the street, leaving Brenda and Jessica behind in