My Ghost Still Protects My Son

Before I took my last breath, my six-year-old son, Toby, begged her three times.

The first time, Toby reached out and caught her hand. His voice was trembling, telling her that I was coughing up blood.

Madeline just sneered, her eyes cold as flint. "You’re getting better at this," she said, looking down at our son as if he were a stranger’s dog. "Teaching a child to lie for you? That’s a new low, Ben."

With a flick of her wrist, she signaled her security detail to haul the boy out of the private wing.