Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
He looked back at the laptop, scrolling down the page of photos posted by Rays of Hope, his gaze shifting distractedly over the images. They appeared mostly to be shots from functions either at the foundation or other locations, the outfits and hairstyles of those in the pictures indicating the rewinding years. He froze near the bottom of the page, his heart giving a strong jolt. “Holy shit.”
“What?” she asked, leaning forward to get a better view of the screen.
He turned it toward her and brought his index finger to the photo of an obviously younger Franco sitting at a table with Doc and someone he recognized from an old photo he’d seen in Doc’s office. “It’s Doc and his ex-wife, Gwendolyn.”
“Doc and Franco know each other?”
“Either that or they just attended the same event.”
She studied the photo for a moment before her eyes met his. “This might be nothing but a coincidence, and that photo is obviously many years old. It wouldn’t be surprising if everyone in the TL was connected in some way. But . . . Ambrose, do you think . . .” She looked away, biting at her lip, obviously at a loss for exactly what this meant.
He set the computer aside and then picked up his phone again, this time dialing Doc’s number rather than just leaving a text. It went straight to voicemail, and Ambrose hung up with a frustrated huff. “I think we should go talk to Doc,” Ambrose said. Lennon nodded, getting up off the bed and putting on her shoes.
He had a deep feeling Franco and Dr. Sweeton being at very least acquainted at some point was anything but a coincidence. He just had no idea what the connection was.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Dr. Alexander Sweeton held the photograph in his hand, gazing down at his daughter, Nancy, and his first wife, Gwendolyn. They’d gone to Disneyland in Los Angeles and spent four days in the park, riding rides, eating snow cones, and buying overpriced mouse memorabilia.
It’d been wonderful.
And the last vacation he’d ever taken.
His first marriage had fallen apart after Nancy’s . . . attack. They hadn’t survived the grief and the trauma and the guilt of what had happened to their only child. Gwen was remarried now and living close to Disney World in Florida. He wondered if she ever drove past it, or perhaps spent an afternoon there, and thought about those four dream-filled days in another life altogether.
He’d been alone for a long time after Nancy died and Gwen left. He’d devoted himself completely to the project. But then he’d met Brittany at a cocktail party. She was much younger than him, and they had little in common. But she’d made him laugh. She’d made him feel like a man again. She’d helped him remember the true value of a full life and why he’d made it his passion to help others live the one they’d been denied.
He deserved some happiness, too, didn’t he? And wouldn’t it make him not only a better person but a better doctor for his patients if he enjoyed a more well-rounded life? Those had all been justifications, though. He saw that now. His ego had gotten the best of him, and perhaps it was his fatal flaw.
Their marriage wasn’t working. They both knew it. What should have been a quick and pleasant affair had turned into a stale, resentment-filled union. Their relationship had been ill fated from the beginning, but he’d certainly sped their demise along by making her his last priority.
She’d been dressing differently for months now. Sexier. Wearing outfits similar to the ones she’d worn when they’d first started dating, before she’d become a doctor’s wife and seemed to change her style to fit the role. And he’d seen her entering a hotel near his office with a man he recognized as a high-priced tax attorney. He’d waited for the anger to come, or even the disappointment. But the only emotion that had washed over him as he’d sat in traffic watching them laughing and disappearing through the front doors was relief. He was responsible for the affair she was obviously having. He’d been absent and distracted, and he’d married her for all the wrong reasons, convincing himself the bounce in his step from her affection was love.
He’d insisted on a prenuptial agreement, perhaps because, deep inside, he was aware that their relationship was unlikely to last, but mostly to protect the money he’d stowed away from his highly lucrative practice and many speaking engagements that he used to fund Project Bluebird. The project he’d dedicated his life to was very expensive. There was equipment, and testing, and lab fees, and aftercare. He had employees to train, and a hundred other expenses, big and small. It was because he’d protected his wealth that the project continued and grew. He could not gamble with it, lest he gamble with Nancy’s legacy.