“Sir, I found your son beside the dumpster outside your mansion,” a soaking wet little girl said as she held a baby wrapped inside a black trash bag. The billionaire, who had been declared sterile twelve years earlier, didn't panic. He opened the letter taped to the baby's blanket and called his attorney, never realizing the traitor was already inside his own home.

By midnight, the mansion was sealed tight. Three armed guards stood watch at the main gates, while two others patrolled the stone walls surrounding the estate.

Inside the grand library, Spencer sat behind his mahogany desk, surrounded by leather-bound ledgers and thick stacks of printouts that Arthur had brought from the firm’s private archive.

"Are you certain you want to suspect Mrs. Mabel?" Arthur asked softly, sitting across from him. "She took care of you after your mother passed away, Spencer. She was there when you were a boy."

"My father paid her salary for forty years, Arthur," Spencer said grimly, flipping through a ledger dated thirty years prior. "Look at this. Every month between 1996 and 2002, an additional stipend of ten thousand dollars was disbursed from the primary household account under 'miscellaneous domestic expenses.' The authorization signature isn't my father's. It's Victor's."

Arthur examined the page, his expression darkening. "That doesn't necessarily mean Mrs. Mabel was taking bribes. My brother Victor had full authority over household disbursements back then."

"Then why did Mrs. Mabel call the police and social services the second Charlee walked through the door with that baby?" Spencer countered, leaning forward. "Why was she so eager to have Casey take the children into state custody before we could even run a DNA test?"

Before Arthur could answer, the library door creaked open.

Charlee stood in the doorway, wearing an oversized cotton pajama shirt, holding her blue teddy bear by one arm. Her eyes were wide, filled with a sudden, sharp fear.

"Spencer?" she whispered.

Spencer immediately pushed his chair back and walked over to her. "Charlee? What are you doing up? Is Dexter okay?"

"Dexter is sleeping," Charlee said, her lower lip trembling. "But I heard noises downstairs. Near the kitchen."

Spencer glanced at Arthur, who immediately pulled a small, sleek pistol from his coat pocket.

"Stay here with Charlee," Spencer instructed Arthur quietly. "I’ll check it out."

"Take my gun, Spencer," Arthur offered.

"No," Spencer replied, pulling a compact utility flashlight from his desk drawer. "If someone is in my house, I want to know who it is before I shoot them."

Spencer moved silently down the darkened hallway, his footsteps making no sound against the thick Oriental rugs. The main house was quiet, save for the hum of the central heating system. He reached the heavy swing doors that led into the kitchen quarters.

A faint light was flickering from inside the butler’s pantry.

Spencer pushed the door open half an inch, peeking through the gap.

Standing near the wall safe—the silver safe where household petty cash and emergency documents were kept—was Mrs. Mabel. She was wearing her thick wool coat, holding a small leather travel bag. Her hands were shaking as she entered a six-digit code into the digital keypad.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The safe door clicked open.

Mrs. Mabel reached inside, pulled out a thick manila folder labeled Warren Trust: 1994-1998, and shoved it into her bag.

"Planning a late-night trip, Mrs. Mabel?" Spencer’s cold voice cut through the dim room.

Mrs. Mabel gasped, dropping her bag onto the floor as she spun around, her hand pressed tightly against her heart. Her face went completely white under the harsh fluorescent light of the pantry.

"Mr... Mr. Spencer!" she stammered, backing away against the counter. "I... I was just securing some old files... I thought..."

Spencer walked into the room, his expression unreadable, his eyes fixed on the fallen bag. "You were securing files? Or were you removing the evidence that Florence was paid off thirty years ago to keep quiet about my father's daughter?"

Mrs. Mabel began to weep, her shoulders shaking violently. "You don't understand, Spencer... I had to do it... he threatened my family... he told me if I ever said anything..."

"Who threatened you?" Spencer demanded, stepping closer. "Victor Vance? Or someone else?"

"Not Victor!" Mrs. Mabel cried out, clutching her apron. "Victor is dead, Spencer! He’s been dead for six months!"

Spencer stopped dead in his tracks. "What?"

"Victor didn't run away two years ago," Mrs. Mabel sobbed, sinking onto a kitchen chair. "He was killed... because he found out what your father’s real will said! The man who’s been sending instructions... the man who hired those people to leave that baby in the garbage bag... it isn't Victor!"