THE GUY IN THE SUIT IN THE MIRROR WASN’T ME. HE COULDN’T BE. I WASN’T READY TO PACK IT ALL in yet. I’d only graduated college a couple of years ago. Marriage? A baby on the way? Fuck, middleaged guys did that stuff. Me? I was still young and fancy free. But I wasn’t. Not anymore. Not since the morning Marjorie Maplewood had walked into my office at Hamilton Realty, waving around a white stick that didn’t belong to a popsicle. This kid is yours, Hamilton. Don’t try to pretend it isn’t. What are you going to do about it? It had never occurred to me that the child wasn’t mine, but I’d probably stared at her for two full minutes before finding my voice. Marj hadn’t appreciated that, and she’d burst into such loud sobs that my loyal assistant, Shelly, ran in from the reception area with a handkerchief, a mint, and plenty of judgment.
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