I didn’t need him to finish the sentence.
While Mia slept, I stepped into the hallway and made my calls.
I made careful calls.
First, a lawyer I trusted—the kind who listens more than he speaks.
Then a detective who still believed paperwork could be louder than money.
Then Child Protective Services.
Then, finally, the police.
Each call was brief. Precise. Documented.
By the time Christmas morning arrived, the Sterling estate wasn’t hosting donors and dignitaries.
It was surrounded by flashing lights.
They didn’t resist.
People like them never do.
They stood in silk robes, offended, confused, asking questions as if the situation were a misunderstanding—an inconvenience—an error that would soon be corrected.
The document Mia had taken wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t fake. It wasn’t an exaggeration.
It was one page in a thick file.
Insurance policies.
Forged medical reports.
Consent forms signed with practiced hands.
They had planned to declare her dead.
Quietly.
Cleanly.
Conveniently.
A tragic accident.
A loss.
A write-off.
A bad investment.
She was a child who liked strawberry pancakes and slept with the light on.
She was afraid of storms and laughed too hard at old cartoons.
She trusted people who smiled at her.
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