No Pity For A Mother's Tears

heir protests

air smelled of lemon polish and old books. He walked into his bedroom, which was sparse and

es-jeans, t-shirts, a plain gray hoodie. He didn' t own much else. He had billions in the bank, but he had never seen the point

is porch. Brenda, a kind, middle-aged woman with a warm smile,

rinkling at the corners. "I saw the

ho were standing stiffly by their cars, re

x said, his voice softening

sket. It was filled with ripe, golden loquats from the tree in he

ine gesture of kindness was a stark contrast to the cold, transaction

ng his arm. "Don' t you let anyone push you around." H

t," he

and the small basket of fruit in the other. The Davies family watc

ps of a city hospital. The police had given him a name, Alex Stone, and sent him to an orphanage. He was

he was kind and patient. He saw the boy' s brilliant mind and nurtured it. He taught Alex how to fix engines, how to wel

had in the world. Alex was eighteen. He put himself through college, studying engi

arket, a traffic grid, a corporate structure-and see the flaws, the points of stress, the inevitable outcomes. It was an extreme f

ch company that specialized in predictive analytics and system optimization. He became a billionaire before he was thirt

d. It was his anchor, his touchstone. It

, Catherine, looked at the basket

that?"

said. "A gift f

bringing those... things... with us,"

duffel bag and the basket of fruit on the pristine leather seat. The simple act was a declarat

ust. They had come to collect a long-lost son, an asset. Instead, they had