Incriminating Evidence. Amanda Stevens
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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?” she 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