Free Never Alone by C. J. Carpenter Page A

couldn’t tie him to. Two families had not been given closure. Was this a carrot he would dangle in front of her forever? Opening the letter felt as though she were allowing him back into her psyche, her life—what remained of it.
    She tore it open, nearly ripping the stationery.
    Dear Detective McGinn,
    I hope this note finds you well. I, as you are well aware, am currently residing in Hudson at the psychiatric hospital. The accommodations are within reason for the facility. I’m treated with more regard than the typical resident. I assume much of that is due to my notoriety of late. Judging by the news, my actions have been misconstrued as infamous. Yours, however, have not. It seems you have become quite prominent within the New York City Homicide Division. Your professional advancement was well deserved. By far you have been the only detective—ever—to apply such keen instinctive abilities to what, I think we can both agree, were very few leads in a case such as mine.
    It would be insulting to us both if I were to say luck had anything whatsoever to do with your achievement.
    From time to time, I recall our last face-to-face communication prior to impenetrable brick walls, electric fences, and plexiglass dividers obstructing conversation. Do you, and I’m sure you must, think back to how you captured me? You and I both know I let you win. I, however, am the only one to know why. I dare say, you’ve most likely never mentioned it to your handsome partner or to anyone else for that matter. Well done, detective.
    At any rate, I would find it quite interesting to continue our conversation of that night. Yours is the only name I’ve placed on my visitor’s list, if you feel so inclined.
    In closing, I would like to offer my sincere condolences for the loss of your father. I’m sure he was quite proud of your success.
    Your tenacity reminded me of a quote from Blaise Pascal: “It is the fight alone that pleases us, not the victory.”
    I’m curious, detective, what is the next fight on your horizon, and will you be as victorious with it as you were with mine?
    Until we meet again,
    Yours fondly,
    Fintan D. Worth
    It’s an odd experience how mere words on a paper cast a person’s mind to a particular time and place. A love letter whisks your heart into a frenzy just remembering how you felt in that person’s presence. A Dear John letter does the same but with much more painful results. Megan’s brother took a year off of college to backpack through Europe. Brendan sent a postcard from every place he visited. None ever had more than a handful of words on them; all made Megan dream of the time she would visit those places. What she now held in her hands was a seedy personal reminder of the lengths she had gone to, to catch a killer. And that’s how she planned to keep it: personal.
    Megan tossed the letter on the conference room table just as Nappa entered.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” He could sense something was up.
    â€œWell,” she raised her eyebrows, “partner, that is a loaded question. Read.” She handed him the envelope with the letter attached.
    â€œHudson Psychiatric Center. You’ve got to be kidding me.”
    Megan watched his facial expressions as Nappa read Fintan’s correspondence. He was just as, if not more, disgusted than she had been. “What’s he talking about ‘continue the conversation’? What did the two of you talk about?”
    Megan refused eye contact when she answered, “I have no idea what he means. He’s nuts.”
    â€œSick bastard. I can’t believe he’s even allowed to send mail, let alone write to you of all people.”
    Megan took the last sip from her coffee before throwing the empty cup in the trash. “Yeah, well, there’s not much we can do about it.”
    â€œYou okay?”
    â€œFine.”
    Fucked up. Insecure. Neurotic. Empty. F. I. N.