Identical Stranger (HQR Intrigue)

by Alice Sharpe

“I’ve been keeping up with the case. I saw the article about you in the paper. How’s it going?” he asked with genuine curiosity.

  She tucked back damp tendrils and seemed to relax. “We’re lucky in that most of the skeletons were found intact, with only a few missing bones. We also have all the skulls. I don’t have to tell you how helpful that is. It allows us to check dental records and, if necessary, reconstruct facial features.” She paused thoughtfully as if something had suddenly occurred to her.

  He leaned in. “What is it?”

  She said in surprise, “I’m sorry?”

  “You look as if something just came to you.”

  “I was thinking about one of the victims. There’s a rather puzzling inconsistency.”

  She had a way of making everything sound dreamy and mysterious. A conversation about human remains and serial killers should have evoked gruesome imagery, but instead her melodic voice mingling with the sound of raindrops against the windows mesmerized Nick. If he wasn’t careful, he might find himself drowning in the unfathomable darkness of her eyes. “What kind of inconsistency?”

  She seemed to catch herself then, shaking her head slightly as she clutched the box with both hands. “That’s a discussion for the police. It has nothing to do with why I’m here.”

  Nick leaned back in his chair feeling oddly thwarted. “Back to Orson Lee Finch, then. The Twilight Killer.” He took a moment to pretend to read his notes. He felt a little rattled and he didn’t know why. For all his shortcomings—and he had more than a few—a lack of confidence in his cognitive abilities had never been one of them. Yet he couldn’t seem to get a read on Catherine March. Beneath that ethereal demeanor, something dark and unsettling simmered. “When you called this morning, you mentioned a photograph.”

  She glanced down at the box. “It ran in the local paper at the time of Finch’s arrest. The image is grainy, but it appears to be Finch. He’s holding the hand of a little girl who looks to be about two. According to the accompanying article, the photo was sent to the paper anonymously and is the only known shot of that child. It was speculated at the time that she was Finch’s daughter, but no one could ever locate her. Finch would never confirm or deny the rumor. Detective LaSalle... I mean... Sorry...” She faltered uncomfortably, realizing she’d addressed him by his former title. He wondered if she knew the circumstances of his departure from the police department. If so, he could only assume she’d reconciled the rumors to her satisfaction or she wouldn’t be here.

  “Call me Nick,” he said.

  She looked relieved. “There’s no easy way to say this. I’ve reason to believe that I’m the child in that photograph. If true, then there is a very good chance that Orson Lee Finch is my biological father.”

  She’d shocked him, but he tried not to show it. “That’s quite a leap from one old photograph. Do you have more substantial evidence?”

  “No,” she admitted. “Only that my mother saved every newspaper article written about Finch and she told me before she died that it had all been a lie.”

  “Meaning?”

  “She didn’t elaborate. Couldn’t elaborate. It was near the end and she was in and out of consciousness, but she seemed lucid in that moment. Still, I might have chalked it up to delirium if not for the clippings and the fact that she took such pains to hide them from me.”

  “So, to be clear, you think Orson Lee Finch and your mother—”

  “No!” Her voice rose. She took a moment to collect herself. “I was adopted when I was two. Laura March was the only mother I ever knew. The woman who gave birth to me had a relationship with Finch.” She glanced away with a shudder. “At least, that’s the assumption.”

  “How long have you known you were adopted?”

  “For as long as I can remember. My mother and I spoke openly about it since I was a small child. She told me that my biological parents were very young. My father joined the military right out of high school. He died in a helicopter crash before they could marry, leaving my mother—my biological mother—alone and destitute. She tried to make a go of it, but she was too young and poor with no formal education and no job prospects. She gave me up so that I could have a better life.”

  “But you don’t believe that.”

  She hesitated. “I did for a long time, but now I think Laura March invented the story because the truth was too painful...too stigmatizing. And perhaps she wanted to ward off my curiosity.”

  “What about your adoptive father?”

  “Aidan March. He was a cop, killed in the line of duty when I was little. That much is true. Even though I was only five when it happened, I still have vague memories of him. His voice. His smile. The blue of his eyes.” She glanced down at the ring on her finger. “This belonged to his mother. I’m told he wanted me to have it.” She fell silent as she twisted the band.

  Her phrasing wasn’t lost on Nick. If Laura March had lied about Catherine’s birth parents, might she also have fabricated a connection to her adoptive father?

  “Go on,” he prompted.

  “I don’t know how familiar you are with the specifics of the Twilight Killer case, but Orson Lee Finch was a gardener by trade. He went to college for a time majoring in horticulture, but his mother became ill and he had to drop out. Some say that fostered his resentment of the elite. They had what he so desperately wanted but could never acquire. His signature was a rare crimson magnolia petal, which he placed over his victims’ lips.”

  “The kiss of death,” Nick murmured.

  She closed her eyes briefly. “Finch preyed on young, single mothers from affluent families. Despite their advantages—or maybe because of them—he deemed them unfit to raise children. The FBI profiler on the case called the kills mission-oriented. He speculated that the mother of Finch’s child—possibly my biological mother—was his first victim. Her rejection may have triggered his spree. Finch denies it, of course. After all these years, he still maintains his innocence. At least to those who manage to get an interview with him.”

  “Have you talked to him?”

  The question seemed to distress her. “I haven’t gone to see him. Why would I?”

  “You say you want answers. He would be the logical place to start.”

  She shook her head. “No. I won’t see him. Let me be clear about that. I don’t want Orson Lee Finch in my life. I don’t want him to know who I am or anything about me. I only want the truth. I need to know the truth.”

  “Why?” Nick asked bluntly.

  She regarded him for the longest moment. “If the answer to that question isn’t obvious, then perhaps I’ve come to the wrong person for help.”

  Nick returned her stare. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I have to ask—is it possible you’re latching onto an implausible scenario as a way to distract from your grief? Stories about the Twilight Killer have dominated the news lately. The media has even managed to resurrect the mystique surrounding Twilight’s Children,” he said, referring to the moniker assigned to the offspring of Orson Lee Finch’s victims.

  “I’m well aware of the stories. I’ve read all the articles and watched the documentaries. If what I suspect is true, then I’m the ultimate child of Twilight.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “Not just Finch’s daughter but the offspring of his first victim.”

  Nick let that soak in for a moment. Catherine March didn’t seem the type to court publicity—the opposite, in fact—but he’d been fooled before. If her story got out, he had no doubt the details would be sensationalized. She might even be offered a book or movie deal. Her profession would only feed into the public’s fascination. The daughter of a serial killer devoting her life to forgotten victims.

  He searched her face once again, staring deep into her eyes, waiting for a twitch or a blink that would give her away. Her gaze remained unwavering.

  “Is something wrong?” s
he asked.

  “No,” Nick said. “I was just thinking about everything you’ve told me. At any other time, without the recent media circus, do you think you would have given those clippings a second thought?”

  Annoyance flashed in her eyes. “A box of newspaper clippings hidden beneath a floorboard in my dead mother’s closet? Yes, I think I would have given them a second thought.”

  “I’m not trying to offend you.”

  “I’m not offended. But if you knew me at all, you would know that I’m not the type to embellish or dramatize. I’m nothing if not practical. I’m not jumping to conclusions nor am I trying to distract from my grief. This isn’t a bid for attention or some misguided need to feel special or important. For any number of reasons, I want to know who my biological parents are. Is that so hard to understand?”

  “No,” he said. “But you’ve heard the old saying, sometimes it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  She removed a newspaper clipping from the cigar box and slid it across the desk. “That’s a picture of Orson Lee Finch, is it not?”

  He picked up the yellowed clipping and studied the subjects. “Hard to tell. As you said, the shot is grainy and there’s a shadow across his profile. It could be Finch.”

  She nodded in satisfaction. “The child with him...the little girl...do you see a resemblance to me?”

  Nick took his time studying her features before glancing back down at the clipping. Truthfully, there was a similarity but so vague as to be insignificant. “She has dark hair and dark eyes. Beyond that...”

  She placed a photograph on his desk. “This is a shot of me taken in our backyard when I was three.”

  He compared the photo to the clipping. “There’s a definite likeness, I’ll give you that. But I’m still not willing to draw any conclusions.”

  “I’m not asking you to. All I need from you is a thorough investigation. Do you want the job or don’t you?”

  He waited a beat before he answered. “Why me? Why this agency?” He wondered if she would remind him that she had once consulted on one of his cases, but instead she withdrew a creased business card from the shoebox and handed it to him.

  “Do you recognize this?” she asked.

  He gazed down at the familiar logo. “It’s one of our old business cards. The design was changed years ago.”

  “I found that card in the same box with the clippings. There’s a number scribbled on the back.”

  Nick flipped the card and a shock wave went through him. This time he was unable to hide his astonishment.

  “I take it from your expression that you recognize the number,” she said.

  “It’s my father’s home number,” he conceded reluctantly. “It’s been unlisted for years.”

  “Which means he must have spoken with my mother at some point. I think she came to him hoping that he could help her find out the truth about my biological parents. She must have had suspicions for a long time. Why else would she have saved those clippings? Why else would she have kept them from me? Ask your father if he remembers her. Or, better yet, check to see if there’s a case file.” Her gaze intensified. “It could be that the work has already been done for us.”

  Nick picked up the card and flicked it idly between his fingers. “I can tell this means a lot to you.”

  “Of course, it means a lot to me. Put yourself in my place.”

  “I’ve been sitting here trying to do just that and here’s my conclusion... What if you are Orson Lee Finch’s biological daughter? It won’t change who you are. It won’t diminish your accomplishments.”

  She sighed. “Nurture over nature. I get it. I may even believe it. Laura March was a wonderful person. Everything I am, I owe to her. I couldn’t have asked for a more loving parent. But she kept things from me and I need to know why.” Catherine’s voice quivered and for the first time, she looked vulnerable. Lost. “A person needs to know where she comes from, Nick. A person needs to know the truth about her past.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. “Okay,” he said. “I’d like you to leave the clippings with me for now. The photograph, too, if you don’t mind.”

  “Does that mean you’ll take my case?”

  “I’ll look into it. If Orson Lee Finch will agree to see me, I’ll press for a DNA test. That is what you want, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. That’s what I want,” she insisted, even as she looked anything but certain.

  “If Finch cooperates—which I doubt he will—you’ll have your answer in a matter of days. If not, we’ll figure out where to go from there.”

  “You have no idea what this means to me.” She stood. “I realize how deluded I must sound. Thank you for hearing me out. You could have just sent me away.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Depending on the outcome, you may not want to thank me at all.” He rose and walked her to the door. Their shoulders brushed as he reached for the knob. She moved away quickly and muttered an apology. But in that fleeting moment of contact, awareness sizzled. Nick found himself breathing in her scent. She smelled of raindrops and vanilla. A clean fragrance with more than a hint of mystery.

  He cleared his head as he pulled open the door. “It was good seeing you again, Dr. March.”

  “You, as well. It’s been a long time. And please call me Catherine.” She smiled for the first time since entering his office. “I was surprised to hear you’d left the police department.”

  “Were you?” His smile felt brittle. “No one else was.”

  “Charleston PD’s loss is my gain.”

  “We’ll see, I guess.” He handed her a fresh business card. “My cell number is on the back. Call me if you need anything or if you have questions.”

  She pocketed the card. “We haven’t talked about financial arrangements.”

  “Jackie at the front desk will explain our terms.”

  “Thank you again.”

  Nick waited until he heard her footsteps on the stairs before moving into the hallway. He stood at the railing overlooking the lobby as she paused at the reception desk to speak with Jackie Morris.

  Then fetching her umbrella and raincoat, Catherine March went out into the rainy afternoon, leaving Nick feeling oddly troubled as he stared after her.

  Copyright © 2019 by Marilyn Medlock Amann

  ISBN-13: 9781488045912

  Identical Stranger

  Copyright © 2019 by Alice Sharpe

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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