Too Late For "I Love You"

From the back cover

My career as a restorative artist thrived, a perfect mask for the gaping hole my estranged mother left.

For years, I'd demonized Eleanor, especially after my father's tragic death, blaming her for everything.

So, when a Jane Doe, brutally disfigured, landed on my marble slab, it was just another case.

Until I saw it: a familiar, faint burn scar on her forearm.

I dismissed it – "evil people live forever," I'd sneered.

Then, the pieces clicked.

The police timeline, a chilling echo of my last, dismissive phone call with my mother.

My colleague pointed out the scar was deliberately removed.

Sam, an old family friend, ambushed me, his words a painful hammer.

Eleanor had longed for reconciliation, had baked my favorite apple pie for her birthday – for me.

He confessed that my father, Richard, had lied about everything.

A detective's grim call confirmed the worst.

My heart seized.

The woman I'd just worked on, the "Jane Doe," was my mother.

The woman I'd scorned, the woman whose death I'd scoffed at, was now lying on my table, her face meticulously rebuilt by my own hands.

My last words to her, "Stop trying to ruin everything with your drama!", rang in my ears.

How could I have been so blind, so cruel?

This was the horrifying truth staring back at me.

This was Eleanor.

And now, I would find out what truly happened.