At the police station Jace scribbled down the address of the woman he was going to see, 559 Wilson Street, Pottstown Pennsylvania.

He was in such a hurry that he didn't even bother to get any information on the woman. He hopped into his car and tapped the street address into his phone setting the GPS. It only took him 3 hours to get to the tiny little house. He took a few minutes to compose himself in the car. Then he remembered Jace Wayland never got nervous or afraid. He scoffed and flung himself out of the car.

He walked up to the house, it was small and simple. He slowly knocked on the wooden door, a small voice called from the other side of the door, "Just a second,"

The door creaked open to reveal a frail, old woman. She had pale blonde turning grey hair and pearl eyes. She looked as if she had been through a war of hardships, yet her eyes still showed a glowing kindness. Jace could tell that she was beautiful when she was younger and much stronger than she looked.

She opened her mouth to reveal a flawless smile. Her eyes glossed over looking at Jace, she looked down him taking in every feature. She reached a hand over her mouth, "You look so much like him," She whispered in awe. She then cleared her throat, "You must be Jace."

She ushered him into the house, it smelt of honey and fresh flowers. She led him to the living room and sat down on a plush chair in the corner. Jace sat down on the sofa across from the chair. "Yes, and you are?" He tried to ask as politely as possible. He was never one to be rude to old ladies. His words could break hearts and he didn't want to be the last one to hurt them before they passed.

"I'm Imogen Herondale." She shuffled through a cabinet next to where she was seated. She picked up a tinted envelope and blew the dust off of it. "I suppose this is why you're here."

Jace wondered how she knew his father, probably just an old friend. He swiftly got up and took the letter in his hands. On the cover of it, it read To My Son in black letters. His hands shock as he pulled the paper out, he unfolded it carefully. His eyes automatically shot to the bottom to see his father's signature. But it wasn't there, instead there was Stephen Herondale written in curvy black ink.

Jace looked up to Imogen, "This isn't my father. It says Stephen Herondale, my father is Michael Wayland."

Imogen looked troubled for a second, "So no one's told you?" Jace shook his head, "Your father died long ago-"

"I knew that," Jace interrupted.

"No, your father, Stephen Herondale, died when you were just months old and your mother had died during birth. That left you all alone, in Stephen's will, it was stated that if both him and his wife died then the custody of you, Jace, would go to his best friend, Michael, Wayland. Michael decided not to tell you until you were old enough to understand. You remember how Michael died when you were just fourteen," Jace nodded, "Well between the three of your 'parents' there was enough money to get you a little apartment, in which you live in now, and a car, that you couldn't use until you had your license."

It was true; Jace had been on his own since he was fourteen. A man came to his door the day his dad-god father, he didn't know what to call him- died and gave him keys to an apartment and a car. He would walk to school until he turned sixteen. Every week the man would bring him groceries and spending money. Jace never asked who the man was, or anything about him. He wanted nothing to do with the man that had left him alone in this world. Jace learned way back not to ask questions.

He nodded slowly, turning his attention back to the letter. It read:

To my son,

I know you most likely hate me, and I understand. I knew my life wasn't going to be very long. I befriended the wrong type of people, which led to a dangerous life. I tried to get away from it, trust me I did, but that just wasn't possible. After your mom died, I didn't try fighting the work I was doing. It made me feel alive and close to death, the death I desperately desired. It was selfish, I know. I couldn't handle it, I wasn't a father figure and without your mother I feared your upbringing. I feared you would turn out like me, a coward. A man who was too foolish to see what needed to be done. If my death does come soon, I have made arrangements with my good friend, Michael Wayland. He's a good man and hopefully will be a good father. I hope one day you will be able to forgive me.

I owe you so much,

Stephen Herondale

Jace's hands shook while reading it. He did hate his father, with every cell in his body. He left him because he didn't have the courage to man up and just get away from those people. Then handed him over to a man that would later beat him when it got too difficult to teach him like a real father should. He couldn't believe it, any of it.

Imogen was looking at him, reading his reaction. She knew it wasn't good.

Jace knew he couldn't go back to New York with this in his head, he couldn't see his friends. He couldn't hear his teachers can him by the last name Wayland. He needed time to think, desperately.

Imogen offered him as much time as he needed, so he stayed with her. He enjoyed hearing her talk of the 'old days' and being around her. He also enjoyed being away from the city and just in a simple town. He took a lot of walks, the fresh air helped him think and clear his head.

Two weeks passed and he went to get Imogen for breakfast up in her room. She was always up before him, so he was curious as to why she was not up. He walked into the room and went over to the curtains, opening them. Then he walked over to the bed. Imogen lay on her back with one hand on her chest and one next to her side. Jace put his hand over the one at her side and gasped when he felt her cold skin.

He quickly tried to find her pulse, but he was unsuccessful. He laid her hand on top of the other and looked at her. Her eyes were closed and even though her face was relaxed there was a faint smile on her lips. Jace knew that her time had been limited, he was glad she died peacefully like this. A small smile found his lips. After saying a few pleasant words he got up and called the police to take the body away. This was the third person to die in his life. The only person that thought of him as more than a playboy that had screwed up their life, to her he was a real person with real purpose. She had been so kind and truly honest to him and now she was gone. Gone.

He spent the next week he spent packing up her things and found that almost half of it was already sorted and labeled; she must have known she didn't have much time. He paused to look at the pictures of her in her youth. He was right, she was beautiful. He found a picture of her and a young boy that looked alot like him. That must be his father. He didn't pack that one. When he was mostly done, he alerted some people in her contacts to do things with the items he didn't know what to do with. She had already talked to her lawyers about some possessions and what would happen to the house.

Jace took the picture of Imogen and his father with him into his car and set his GPS to his apartment, not knowing the trouble he was coming home to.