Dear Reed,
My name is Josie Stratton, and I’m your birth mother. I’m sure you know by now that your birth was anything but typical. When I think back to it, it’s with a sense of wonder that we were able to get through it at all. Then again, maybe I’m not, for you see, of all the things that have ever happened in my life, you have been my biggest motivation to keep trying, to keep moving forward, to be better, and stronger, and braver, so that someday, if we meet again, you will be proud of me.
I know how much your mom and dad love you, how they’d protect you with their lives. I saw it on their faces when I met them, and it will give me comfort always. But what I want you to know is that even before they took you in their arms and welcomed you into their hearts and their home, you were already loved, deeply and unconditionally. I don’t want you ever to doubt that, not for one moment.
I didn’t have the best upbringing; your mom and dad might have told you that. It took me a long time to figure out what love really is because the examples shown to me felt like anything but. It was you, my precious boy, who finally taught me the true meaning of the word. And ultimately, my understanding of love is what allowed me to let you go. I hope you feel that with all your heart.
You will always be the greatest blessing of my life, and I will love you until my dying breath and then beyond.
Josie
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The city was still in an uproar. The Charles Hartsman case was the top story in both local and national news, and the search for the now infamous serial killer continued. At the moment, though, they had zero leads. It was as if the man had simply vanished into thin air, which was terrifying and perplexing, considering he had only ever held down low-paying jobs. Which begged the question, how would he fund a life on the lam? It ate at Zach.
They’d discovered that Charles Hartsman’s most recent low-paying job had been as a janitor at the University of Cincinnati. No one seemed to be able to describe the meek man other than to say he was quiet, often wore a ball cap, and kept his head down. He’d played yet another role, a man who was virtually invisible, but who had obviously watched the professor, learning of his most recent affairs. He’d killed those women, Zach thought, not only because in his mind they carried blame, but he’d planned the timing of the discovery of their bodies, intended the police eventually be led straight to Professor Merrick. He hadn’t been “lying low” for eight years. He’d murdered more of those who were to blame when the opportunity presented. But mostly, he’d schemed and strategized for the complete ruination of the man he’d considered ultimately responsible for his pain and suffering.
Zach thought of the professor, cringing at the picture that still came to mind when his thoughts returned to that dark basement where the professor had been carved up, left to live, and not to die. It had been Charles Hartsman’s final battle. And he’d won, at least, Zach supposed, in Charles’s own mind. The professor’s career was over, he’d left the university disgraced, his family was gone, and for the rest of his life, people would cringe when they looked at his scarred and mutilated face. Zach rubbed a hand over his stubbly jaw.
“There’s someone at the front desk asking to speak with you, Cope,” another detective said as he made his way to his own desk.
Zach sighed. Media, most likely. Damn, he was tired. He’d been stretched thin for weeks, living on caffeine and adrenalin, trying his damnedest to give Josie the space she’d asked for.
Josie.
His heart crunched. Fuck, but he missed her.
He made his way to the front desk where an attractive woman, who looked to be in her thirties, stood next to another attractive woman a few decades older. They were both dressed conservatively, understated, yet obviously expensive jewelry flashing at him from both women’s ears and fingers. Designer purses were slung over their shoulders. Definitely not reporters. Curiosity spiked. “Detective Copeland?” the younger woman asked, stepping forward.
“Yes,” he said, offering his hand to both women.
“Is there somewhere we may speak?”
Zach ushered them into an office nearby, offering them a seat. “No, thank you,” the younger woman said. “This won’t take long.” She glanced at the older woman. “That man on the news? Charles Hartsman?”
“Yes?” Zach asked, frowning, leaning back against the desk behind him.
“My mother here just confessed to me that she’d been seeing him for a few years now.”
Seeing him? The older woman’s cheeks heated. Ah. “He told me he was an Italian immigrant who’d left a life of poverty in his home country to live here in America. He’d arrived with little else than the shirt on his back.” Her flush deepened. “He was very convincing,” she said, her eyes darting away.
Her daughter cleared her throat. “Get to the point, Mother.”
“Well, he ah, that is—”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Her daughter stepped forward. “He hoodwinked her. Stole from her, and then disappeared.”
“Stole from her?” Zach asked, looking between the women.
“Yes,” the woman said, her eyes filled with shame. “Two million dollars.”
Zach looked between the women, a certainty taking over. Charles Hartsman was long gone. And he had a strong feeling other women would come forward with similar stories. Those eight years had not only been spent planning and strategizing for the downfall of Professor Merrick, but for his own escape.
We won’t be seeing each other again, he’d told Josie.
The final battle has ended.
The war is over.