Brandon scuffed his boot on the ground again, leaving a dark rubber streak on the alley concrete.

“I don’t understand what his rich family has to do with my baby.”

“Raymond Winslow is your biological father,” I said.

Brandon looked up at me, his eyes wide and blank, like he’d been hit across the chest with a heavy beam.

“My father died while I was in state foster care, before I turned four.”

“The state foster papers were wrong,” I said.

“Raymond searched state registries for thirty years trying to find where you’d been placed.