Vincent’s disbelief turned to something colder—calculation. Seven children. All successful. Someone among them had to feel something—guilt, duty, pity. He didn’t deserve their help, but he needed it. They looked like him. That had to count for something. It was a long shot, but it was his only one.
He moved quickly, not out of courage, but necessity. He gathered the last crumpled bills from the drawer, maxed out what little was left on his card, and bought a one-way ticket to New York. Linda might not want to see him, but surely one of his children would give him a chance.