Chapter 1

On our son's birthday, when I'd finally scraped together enough money for surgery for our boy with the rare illness, my wife, Maisie Pruitt, called to say she'd been scammed.

Every last dollar of our savings, gone.

And at that very moment.

My son and I were crouched outside a cake shop, waiting for it to close so we could pick up the cake he'd had his heart set on at a markdown.

On the way home, he carried the cake carefully in both hands and tilted his face up at me.

"Dad, it's my birthday today. What kind of present do you think Mom will give me?"

I was about to answer when a familiar face came into view.

The wife who'd just called me in tears, saying our savings had been scammed away, was sitting in the upscale restaurant across the street, a strange man at her side.

They were celebrating a little boy's birthday.

I watched her smile as she pulled a bank card from her purse and handed it to the boy.

My son, who could read lips, spoke softly beside me.

"Hayden Abbott, happy birthday. This is a little something from me."

"There's a million on this card. Think of it as your allowance."

My whole body wouldn't stop shaking.

A million.

Every dollar I had, and it was some other child's pocket money.

By the time I came back to myself.

My son had already pressed the first contact on his phone watch.

"Mom, it's my birthday today. What are you giving me for a present?"

The woman's voice came through clearly to my ears.

"It's just a birthday. You have one every year. Can't you be a little more mature about it?"

Watching the irritation on her face, I felt a bone-deep exhaustion come over me.

...

"Didn't your dad tell you? All of our savings got scammed away. I'm very upset right now. I'm not in the mood to celebrate your birthday."

"Robin Gilbert, grow up a little."

And with that.

She didn't even wait for our son to say another word before she hung up without a second's hesitation.

My son looked up at me, a trace of confusion in his eyes.

"Dad, Mom... she said our savings all got scammed away. She said she wasn't in the mood to celebrate my birthday. But... but how come she's celebrating some other kid's birthday?"

As he spoke.

He reached out and tugged at the hem of my clothes, and when he spoke again there was a sob in his voice.

"Dad, did I make Mom angry again? Is she upset with me again? Maybe I should go over and apologize to her right now."

He lifted his eyes toward Maisie Pruitt, seated in the restaurant not far away.

"Hayden, I'm so happy it's your birthday today, and so lucky. I hope you feel that way too..."

He froze where he stood and looked up at me again, the confusion in his eyes deeper than before.

"Dad, Mom's clearly so happy. Look at her, smiling like that. She even said she feels so lucky. Could I... could I have read her lips wrong?"

Watching my son's eyes slowly redden, I clenched my fist hard, forcing down the surge inside me, and reached out to take his hand, trying to pull his attention elsewhere first.

"The cake's going to melt if we don't get home. Isn't this the chocolate cake you've always wanted? Let's go home first, okay?"

At that.

He looked at the cake in my hand, and his eyes went bright in an instant.

"Yes, yes."

"Then let's hurry home. Mom loves chocolate cake best. We really can't let it melt."

I went still.

So that was it.

That was why he'd agonized so long between the chocolate cake and the strawberry cake.

I took his hand and turned to leave.

The next second.

Maisie Pruitt's gaze happened to drift our way.

Through the crowd, our eyes met.

But only for that instant.

Then she looked away, fast, as though my son and I were nothing more than strangers to her.

When we pushed open the door to the rental and stepped inside.

The first thing my son saw was the crookedly stitched stuffed toy sitting on the couch.

He raced over, snatched it up, and pressed it to his chest, more thrilled than I'd ever seen him.

"Dad, this is my favorite stuffed toy. Is this the birthday present Mom got for me? Dad, look, look!"

I stood frozen.

In all my memory, Maisie Pruitt had never once remembered our son's birthday since the day he was born, let alone prepared a present.

And this was the first time.

"Dad, let's wait for Mom to come home before we cut the cake! I want to make a wish with both of you."

He'd already started coughing, unable to stop.

I glanced up at the time without thinking. It was already ten at night.

The doctor had warned again and again that with his illness, he had to keep early hours and never, ever stay up late.

I opened my mouth to say something, but meeting the hope filling his eyes, my heart softened and I couldn't bring myself to refuse.

"Just this once."

"Okay!"

But we waited and waited, and Maisie Pruitt never came home.

Finally, when the hands hit eleven-thirty, I picked up my phone and called her.

The phone rang for a long time.

In the end, it was a man who answered.

"Hello, who is this?"