Seven months after our divorce, I rushed into St. Jude’s Children’s and Women’s Hospital, still angry at my ex-wife, only to learn that she had just given birth to twin boys, and both of them were mine. Before the night was over, a nurse would place a brass key in my hand and tell me to use it before my own family arrived. And what was waiting for me beyond that was even more shocking.

“He assured me those files came straight from the compliance department,” I recalled.

“He told you whatever your father told him to say,” she countered.

I took my private cell phone out of my jacket pocket.

I saw three missed calls from Marcus Vance, all from earlier that evening while I was driving to the hospital.

I called his number directly.

He picked up before the first ring had even finished.

“Alexander!” Marcus said frantically through the speaker.

His voice sounded badly strained and anxious.