did.
My mind circled, as it often did these days, around a single name: Maya Stovall. My daughter. Five years since I’d seen her face, heard her voice, held her hand. The last time we’d spoken, I’d said words I could never take back: “If you marry him, don’t call me father again.”
Marcus Thorne. Even now, his name tasted bitter. I’d known from the moment continue reading …
