No matter what, the little one was innocent.
He didn't know anything and she had promised him she would never leave him.
The one to be blamed was only Sylvan Cheney.
How many women had he toyed with? Little Chale's mother, Yolanda Fern, and even her.
Scumbag.
Jasmine Yale embraced her blanket and went to sleep.
Sylvan Cheney also took a bath. After that, he sat on the couch and smoked.
Outside the window, the moon was hidden by the mist, the heavy autumn dew imminent. The deep autumn night was very cold, filled with a bone-chilling chill.
The living room was particularly cold.
Wrapped only in a bathrobe, Sylvan Cheney's heart was very calm and serene.
The smell of tobacco spread throughout the living room with the smoke gradually unveiling his memories.
Three years ago, Charles Mcintosh had handed him the infant that survived in the incubator.
