“I’m ready.”
“Irene Harris. 46 years old. We treated her for both of those things 11 years ago. We also treated her for an overdose 3 years ago, but she sadly passed away.”
Ella couldn’t think of the right words to say. She shut her eyes and tried to keep calm in light of this revelation, but the adrenaline was already building like a powerful wave.
“Could you send me her file?” Ella asked.
“Certainly. Providing it’s a law enforcement domain name.”
“It is.” Ella passed the address on.
“Coming over now.”
“Thank you. One last thing. Did the woman have any next of kin?”
“Yes,” the woman said clinically. “One son, according to this file. A gentleman named Zack Harris.”
Ella thanked the receptionist again and ended the call.
Her fingers went numb with anticipation. Her throat dried up. She bit her lip so hard she almost drew blood. She rose to her feet and began pacing the room, preparing herself for what she was positive was her final battle here in Pennsylvania.
She grabbed a crime scene photo off the desk, the one of Cassie Sullivan’s leg, missing a chunk of flesh where her tattoo would have been.
The tattoo had said Mom.