Not frantic ones.
Not emotional ones.
Not the kind that beg.
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.
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