Beautifully Damaged (Beautifully Damaged series) by L.A. Fiore (30)

My uncle called and asked if Trace and I would join him for dinner. The place he selected was a small eatery in Midtown and when Trace and I entered we saw that my uncle wasn’t alone. We made our way through the tables and as soon as my uncle saw us he stood, his guest following him.

“Ember, Trace, thanks so much for coming.”

“Any time, Uncle Josh, you know that.”

“I would like to introduce you both to Vincent Gowan.”

I recognized the name immediately. My uncle’s guest was middle-aged, late forties, and his black hair was gray at the temples. There was a warmth to his smile and a sincerity in his eyes. At first impression, I really liked Vincent Gowan.

We sat and placed our orders and then my uncle glanced over at Trace.

“Vincent is the detective who investigated your parents’ deaths, Trace. Ember and I had some questions and when I tracked down Vincent he shared with me a story that I knew he needed to share with you.”

“About twenty years ago, I was a rookie on the force in Bellville, Ohio,” Vincent began. “I responded to a domestic-disturbance call and that was when I met Victoria. She was terrified and the huge black bruises on her jaw and cheek explained why. Like most abused women, she didn’t want to talk and wanted me gone, but every time the neighbors called in a complaint, I responded with the hopes that at some point Victoria would grow comfortable enough with me to ask for help. She didn’t, though, not once in the dozens of times that I was called to her house.

“One night, months after that first visit, she called me and asked me to help her children. She feared for them: feared what her husband would do to them. It was a difficult situation, since she had never pressed charges against the man, so trying to remove his children without any legal ground was close to impossible.

“I didn’t know about Amanda Walsh and what she was trying to do until after she died. Victoria felt responsible for Amanda’s death and she was terrified of what would become of her and her children if she went against her husband—so much so that she stayed.

“No further calls were made and the times that I would drive by the house to check on Victoria, I’d see her sometimes in the garden and she looked peaceful, almost serene, so I assumed everything had worked out. That was a mistake, a rookie mistake. Abusers don’t just stop, but it was naive hope that allowed me to believe in the impossible.

“It was six years later when I actually got the call. I drove to the house and immediately knew something terrible had happened. When I heard the whole of it, I was compelled to help. The Bellville police force is very small and I wasn’t much more than a rookie so any inconsistencies in my report were chalked up as inexperience. Without any hard evidence, the case eventually went cold and that was what I wanted—for this case to never be solved. I had seen her husband’s handiwork and when she shared with me his sick interest in his children, I couldn’t condemn her, since I would have done exactly the same in her shoes.”

“What the hell are you saying?” Trace demanded as his jaw clenched hard with his anger.

Vincent leaned closer before he whispered, “That night, thirteen years ago, it wasn’t Victoria Michaels who died, it was Darlene Moore.”

My eyes flew to Trace’s. I took his hand, which was icy cold, and held it in my own as the full meaning of Vincent’s words settled over me. Darlene Moore was dead, which meant the woman we met, the one we believed to be Darlene Moore, had to be Trace’s mom, alive and well. His mother was alive, and his mother did care. She sacrificed her own life to save those of her children.

“I learned in the years that followed that Darlene killed Amanda to protect Douglas and vowed to Victoria that she would do the same to Victoria’s children if Victoria ever told anyone. It was then that Darlene upped the dosage that Douglas had already been feeding Victoria, keeping her in a near comatose state, but even in that condition she found the strength to fight for you—knew that you were both in danger. She didn’t help you that night, because she wanted you out of the house. She wanted you away and safe so that she could do what she knew she had to in order to ensure that you were both safe once and for all. The bodies were as gruesome as they were because I hadn’t wanted anyone to be able to identify the female victim. I buried the dental records and with us being as small a shop as we are in Bellville, the only other way to identify the body was through facial recognition. The fact that the body was in the Stanwyck home only furthered the belief that the victim was Victoria. And, yes, I knowingly aided and abetted. Darlene Moore was a murderer and Douglas Stanwyck was an animal. Legally I crossed a line, but morally I didn’t. I called in a favor with a doctor friend to help with Victoria’s withdrawals and he said it was nothing short of a medical miracle that someone who had been drugged for as long as she had wasn’t brain-fried.”

Trace, who had remained completely frozen, suddenly stood and reached his hand down to me.

“Would you please come with me? I have to see her.”

I stood and took his hand. “Absolutely.”

When we arrived at the bar in Ramsey on his bike, I turned to him.

“Do you want me to stay here?”

“No, come inside with me.”

Five minutes passed and Trace made no move to get off so I touched his shoulder.

“Tell me what you’re thinking?”

He was silent for a minute, and I didn’t think he was going to answer, and then he said, “There’s so much going on in my head but the only thing I can seem to focus on is that my mom is alive.”

“She’s not just alive, but she fought for you and was the one who ultimately saved you.”

“No, she made sure that Chelsea and I were safe, but it was you who saved me.”

I walked with Trace into the bar and as soon as we stepped over the threshold, I spotted Victoria. It took her only a moment to turn and when she did, her expression said it all. Trace had yet to let go of my hand and, when he started to walk, I realized that he wanted me to come with him.

We met her halfway and I watched as mother and son were reunited after over a decade of separation. I couldn’t help the tears that fell freely down my face when Trace moved without speaking a word and wrapped his strong arms around the delicate frame of his mother. She, in turn, wrapped her arms around him, both of them crying. Trace reached for my arm and pulled me toward them as they both included me in the hug and there we stood for quite some time.