I found a young woman half-frozen in the park with two babies clinging to her — and when she whispered, “Please don’t let him find us,” I didn’t realize I was seconds away from a truth tied to my own past.

I almost kept walking—people leave all kinds of debris in public parks—but then I saw the blanket move. A twitch. Too small to ignore.

I stepped closer, heart kicking into a faster rhythm.

What I saw next didn’t feel real.

A young woman, barely an adult, curled against the bench as if trying to disappear into herself. And pressed against her chest, wrapped in thin layers of cloth that were damp from fog, were two tiny infants.

The girl’s skin was pale, her breaths shallow. The babies were cold, frighteningly quiet.

I knelt beside her. “Miss? Can you hear me?”

Her eyelids fluttered open. Fear, deep and raw, flickered inside them.

She grabbed my wrist—a grip far stronger than her condition allowed.

“Please…” she whispered. “Don’t let him find us.”

Before I could ask who she meant, her head fell forward.

I didn’t think. I reacted.

“Gage!” I yelled toward my security assistant standing near the event setup tents. “We need help—now!”

He sprinted over. Together, we wrapped the infants inside my coat and lifted the girl carefully.

“We should call the paramedics,” he said.

“No time,” I answered. “My place is five minutes away. Dr. Hayes can meet us there.”

We hurried to the car, the early morning fog swallowing our footsteps.

I didn’t know it yet, but my entire life was about to change.

Continue READING