Too Late For "I Love You"

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.