The plane ride was hell.

From her home to the hotel in downtown Glasgow, the total time spent traveling was nearly 17 hours. Her nose and throat were dry from the air systems at her various stops and she had a kink in her neck from the way she slept, but she was in Glasgow.

She was home.

It has been nearly two years since she was last in her home city. In the city that had been rattled with nearly a dozen deaths. She could still remember being in the hospital, her fathers name on every news channel and paper front page.

Kevin Kent — her father — had killed four men and then her mother before police were able to find him, and another six people died in the car chase that ended his life. Two of them were officers. Her name had been kept out of the press for as long as possible, as the head detective told everyone she was Darla Kent's estranged niece who had run away from her family.

It had worked for the first three months, and then while still in the hospital someone let slip that she belonged to the family in a much more personal way her life turned chaotic. A month after that, two reporters on two separate occasions had dressed themselves up and nurses in order to get close enough to interview her for their articles.

24/7 security was implemented after that.

Jodi had spent a lot of time by herself in that hospital room. Her mother had no contact with her family, and she had no idea what parts of her fathers story she was told were true. Along with her loneliness, she also had the letters.

Hundreds of letters.

The moment her actual identity came out, they started coming in. Some mailed to the hospital, some left at the front counter, some even snuck under her locked door.

All of the letters had a lot of colourful things to say about her father and then went on to demand how she hadn't known. How had her mother not known. How could she have lived in a house with a serial killer and had no idea?

It had taken a week for the nurses to find her stash of them in her personal effects closet — the door had to be propped shut it was so full — and contacted the lead detective. Detective Finian Gowan, whom had been the first to realize she was alive in that bloody bed, came immediately and took them all into evidence.

That was who she went to see now.

At the ripe age of 56 Detective Gowan was the first to tell her he was ready for retirement. I've seen enough of people at their worst, he told her the last time they talked. Now it's time for me to find some good.

Even with that in mind, he refused to leave his post. Several people of higher positions had tried to convince him he could leave, that he had done more than enough. Gowan, however, only ever said that he wouldn't properly retire u til his legs stopped working or he was dead. He was an odd duck like that.

The front doors of the police station looked just as they had all those years ago. Brick walls and brass lettering to make it clear who worked there. It was incredibly tall with several windows, most curtained shut.

"How can I help you?" The woman working the front desk asked. She was dressed in uniform, and her accent took a moment for Jodi to understand.

"I'm looking for Detective Gowan," she smiled politely.

"Down the hall on the right, back office."

But she didn't have to go that far.

Walking into the bullpen with a mug of coffee, Detective Finian Gowan was swearing at a stain on the front of his white shirt. He'd spilt his drink. His thinning grey hair was slicked back from his wrinkling face. He looked more and more like an old man every year she saw him, and this time was no different.

The slight limp he'd ignored when she was a child was now prominent enough to warrant a cane and deep splotches bruised into his skin from the use of warfarin. Jodi watched him set the mug down on someone's desk — the poor kid had the same awkward blank look Spencer usually wore — and grab a handful of napkins from where he always kept them in his pockets. He had a knack for spilling things; he always had.

"Good to see some things never change," she said loudly, fighting back a grin.

The swearing paused briefly as Gowan looked around, and his frown almost immediately twisted up into a grin. "Hey, lassie!" He cheered.

His coffee was long forgotten on the desk as they crossed the distance to each other and Jodi held onto him tightly. Gowan smelled the same way he always did — coffee, cigar smoke, and bourbon — and had that same rough yet firm grasp despite his age. The comfort she'd found as a thirteen year old was still there and Jodi found herself curling into him.

They held their grasp for a moment before parting.

For a good chunk of time this had been the only support she had. Gowan had visited her in the hospital, been there for her first steps on the prosthetic; even taken her out to a celebratory dinner when she was officially released from the hospital. He had been the closest thing to family she'd had until she was taken in by the MacDonald family.

They had taken good care of her, even brought her with them when they moved from Scotland down to San Francisco. Her and Quinn, their biological daughter, had gotten along well enough. Jodi was two years older and Quinn had her own set of friends, but she felt that the two of them would become close in time. But Mr MacDonald was diagnosed with cancer just three months later and they were forced to go back.

The United States Foster system didn't allow her to return home with them. From that point Jodi went to another two foster homes before she was placed with Grampa Tom; the first was Ms Lennnon, who had driven one of her few friends to suicide. The second was Waylon Butch: a man so much worse than anything she could have imagined.

Jodi tried to keep in contact with Gowan as the years went by, but it grew more and more difficult. It wasn't until she was twenty two — three years ago — that she was able to get in contact with him.

Since they, for one week every year, the higher ups would grant her time off to go back to Scotland. Her and Gowan would go for dinner, spend a day sightseeing, and then she do the hardest thing with him by her side. They would go to the graveyards.

First they would go to the small and quiet one in her hometown of Dumbarton. Her mothers grave was always well looked after, as the people in town who remembered her kept after it in her honour. Jodi would leave a bouquet of flowers, pick at the weeds...but her and Gowan would always sit and talk. They talked about Jodi's life so her mother could hear. Could be a part of it. They would stay for hours.

Then they would make the hour-and-a-half drive out to Edinburgh.

There, with her one-man police escort, she would visit the massive memorial plaque up side by side at the far right entrance of the massive cemetery. Six names were engraved on that plaque; two police officers and four citizens of Glasgow.

Elsie Scott: a primary school teacher beloved by her third grade students.

Graham Haggardy: a bar tender who tended to cover people's tabs when they'd had a rough time.

Gordon Stewart: a young man part-way through law school.

Liam Caird: a youth pastor known in his community.

Detective Joseph Fergusson: his fellow cops called him Rookie because he was the newest transfer to the precinct. Had only been there a year and a half.

Detective Carson Lorimer: a father of two with a third on the way.

For twelve years now Jodi had learned those names by heart. She attended the funerals for each and every one of them, and would visit the graves of the others victims her father had decidedly killed.

That number quickly went from 6 up to 34, committed all over Scotland. It was believed the number was higher than that, but since Kevin Kent died in the explosive car accident that took the lives of the two detectives, they would never be able to confirm for certain.

Every year their pattern remained the same. This year wouldn't be any different.

So as Detective Gowan chased down what she guessed was Tylenol for his knee with the hot coffee he continued to swear at, Jodi prepared herself for what she would face.

It was a different kind of difficult from her job and what she saw there. This was a kind of pain she couldn't help but feel somewhat responsible for. Of course she had been bleeding out in her childhood bed when these innocent people died, but it didn't matter.

The contents of those letters were convincing enough.

A familiar weight settled on her shoulders, and Jodi steadied herself.

Breath in.

Breath out.

In.

Out.

In...

Out...

The quiet squeak of a canes rubber end moving on the floor reached her ears. "You ready, kid?" Detective Gowan asked, back beside her now.