Page 21 of Treasure and Tarot

Chapter

Eight

Colton paced through the bottom floor of the long shotgun house, noting all the historical features still in place. It was a row home, a company store mining house for sure, but it would have been for a manager or a higher-up, not a hard rock hammer kind of guy.

The woodwork still gleamed, the carved newel post and built-in china cabinet just gorgeous. Sebastian’s family had never painted all that beautiful wood white or godawful gray or any of the other crimes against nature so many people did.

God save him from fucking chalk paint.

And the windows were still wavy glass, even if the casings were newer and the seals fortified against winter weather.

“That fireplace is a work of art, huh, Boss?” Mason said.

“No shit.” And that was an amazing picture of his child.

His baby.

His baby that he hadn’t known about.

He’d been calling his mom. His dad. Their lawyer. Their assistants. Everyone.

No one was calling him back. He was getting no love, and it wasn’t like he could go back to California and deal with it, because he had to handle shit here in Colorado. He needed to getto know his child and try to understand Sebastian and what was going on.

He had to figure out what the fuck his parents had been thinking, too. It was just insane, to deny him his child.

Because he believed Sebastian. In fact, he wanted to see the check. Sebastian hadn’t offered it, but he’d said something during the interview that made Colton believe it was in his desk drawer. So he was going to snoop a little.

He needed to find Sebastian’s desk. It was either on the third floor or down here. Possibly he had one on both.

Colton prayed it was down here. His leg was sore.

So he combed the first floor, and he was starting to despair when he saw the desk tucked all the way to the back of the kitchen. Where Sebastian could look out into the tiny yard.

Right. Baby girl.

The desk drawer was locked. Okay, so he would have to ask Sebastian?—

The desk drawer flew open, a box of staples flying out to land on his foot.

Well. It wasn’t locked anymore.

There were a half-dozen pens. A pair of scissors. A couple of sets of keys to God knew what. Some sticky notes, a few batteries, and there in the back, in the middle of the drawer was a folded piece of paper.

He pulled it out, knowing before he even got there what it was going to be because he knew his father’s lawyer’s—Rocky Allen’s—letterhead.

The letter was straightforward.

“I, Colton Everette Maxwell, the Third am the biological alpha of Abigail Theresa Belle, a female child who was born October 31?—”

His eyesight grayed out a little bit, and he focused first on easing himself down into Sebastian’s chair, forcing himself to take a few breaths before continuing.

“After thoughtful and careful consideration, I voluntarily give up all my parental rights to my child. Additionally, I voluntarily waive service of process and give my consent to voluntarily relinquish any further right to participate in parental proceedings pertaining to said child.”

Jesus, this wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

“In doing so, I am fully aware that this surrender and written voluntary release of parental rights will terminate all of my parental rights to my child. In other words, I am fully aware that terminating my parental rights means I will forever lose custody of my child, and I will no longer have the right to make any decisions regarding my child’s care, support, education, and welfare.”

He was going to throw up.

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