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)
“And?”
“And originally they were the same, with the addition of the LSD coating. Since then, they’ve been reformulated into an altered combination of the original, for what reason, I don’t know.”
“My God,” Lennon said. “So someone got hold of this drug that Dr. Sweeton illegally manufactures—”
“There are very strict controls in place. He doesn’t manufacture more than needed, and none have ever disappeared or been unaccounted for. Dr. Sweeton has gone through every part of the process and can’t come up with how even one pill could have been taken. Plus he trusts the people who work for him.”
“Then how? How did our killer come up with the recipe for these drugs, and what’s the point? Why is he using it to kill people?”
“That’s what we’re all trying to figure out.”
“If I had this information sooner, the investigation would be further along.”
He understood that, and he’d gone back and forth and back and forth on that. “You can understand why I couldn’t tell you.”
“You wasted time. More people might have died because you waited.”
“I couldn’t jeopardize the project.”
Lennon huffed out a frustrated breath. “This is so fucked up,” she murmured. She shook her head. “I need to think. And I can’t think right now because I’m too overwhelmed.” She was quiet for several moments as he waited. “I won’t do anything without giving you advanced warning.”
“Thank you.” It was all he could ask for, and he trusted her word. “Lennon . . . I want to tell you . . . I’m sorry for lying to you, but I’m not sorry for what happened between us. It had nothing to do with any of this. It was completely separate. For me—”
“How can it be completely separate? It’s literally sitting smack-dab in the middle of us.”
He felt frustrated and regretful about that, and he was having a hard time explaining himself. Because though she was right, she was also wrong. But before he could say another word, she stood. “Please go.”
He stood too. “Thank you for listening to me. Thank you for considering . . . everything. You don’t have to turn us in, Lennon. You can help.” He left her where she stood, arms crossed, looking like she held the weight of the world on her slender shoulders.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The world breaks everyone and afterward, many are strong at the broken places.
—Ernest Hemingway
Seventeen Years Ago
Patient Number 0022
Ambrose stepped from the car, shutting the door behind him and watching as the taxi did a three-point turn, the driver giving a salute as he drove by and then out of sight. Ambrose took a deep, sustaining breath and began walking in the direction of the farm, past the leaning mailbox, the empty pasture, and the split rail fence that was falling apart in more sections than it was holding together.
The place where his story had begun.
There was a lump in his throat, and he felt mildly clammy. Ambrose categorized all his body’s sensations as he moved toward the place of his nightmares. It looked even more dilapidated than it had in the memories his brain had conjured during Dr. Sweeton’s therapy. But of course, his mind hadn’t been able to see past what it’d looked like the last time he was here. Back then, the pasture hadn’t been overgrown with weeds taller than him.
Back then, his grandfather had been alive. Back then, he’d still been working this land, tending to the animals, making repairs, and performing maintenance. Apparently, his grandmother did none of that, nor did she hire anyone else to do it.
In a way, this slow walk was the culmination of the therapy he’d been through, or maybe the final test. He was here, at the scene of his real-life torment and the place that had haunted his nightmares ever since, and he was . . . okay. He was okay. Sick. Sad. Nervous. Angry. But okay. And Ambrose DeMarce didn’t remember a day in his twenty-one years when he would have described himself as feeling okay. Especially standing here.
He stepped up on the porch, careful to avoid the sections of rotting wood. Something scurried underneath a hole in the boards, and Ambrose grimaced and stepped over the opening. He brought his fist to the door and banged.
There were the sounds of someone descending the squeaky inside stairs, and a moment later, the door was pulled open. His grandmother stood in front of him, staring blankly.
“Hi, Grandma.” Damn, she looked old. Old and slight. What was she now? Seventy-five? She looked like she was a hundred and twenty. Whatever glint of life had once shone from her eyes had been completely extinguished.
The broken old woman looked him up and down, assessing him as well, and then moved back and gave a jerk of her head, inviting him inside.
And honestly? He didn’t want to step a foot inside the place. But he did anyway, because he needed to test himself even further, and he wouldn’t be sure he’d fully passed until he’d moved beyond the threshold.