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)
“Because, Lennon, with this type of treatment, you have to weigh the risks and rewards. Your mind isn’t bent. You don’t live with debilitating trauma.”
“In small part I do.” She didn’t pretend to be affected anywhere near the degree others were, but she’d suffered. She’d grieved. But how could she allow others to go through the treatment if she didn’t fully understand it? Ambrose had done it. More than five hundred others had done it, and only one, Dr. Sweeton’s daughter, had died. According to them. But if she was going to trust those numbers, the odds were pretty darn good. “You said Dr. Sweeton had a two-day protocol for people who didn’t require the full seven days, like you did.”
“Dr. Sweeton rarely treats patients like that. He has far too many who are desperately in need, as opposed to those who struggle mildly but live functional lives. Plus, logistically, it’s not possible. He needs weeks to prepare. He requires a full workup, both physical and mental, brain scans—”
“He might not have a choice. And I know exactly what’s in the pills. They’re hallucinogens. I’ll consent to taking them. People have wild weekends in college all the time and come out of it just fine. This is even better because I’ll be continually monitored.”
“Lennon—”
“Those are my terms, DeMarce. I have to know.”
He was quiet for several moments, and she could sense his tension emanating through the phone. “This might take you somewhere you don’t want to go.”
Somewhere she didn’t want to go. Back there. To that convenience store in the middle of the night.
“I can handle it,” she insisted. “Tell Dr. Sweeton my terms. And Ambrose, it needs to be soon, possibly today. I’m off until Friday, and there was another ‘BB’ murder last night. We’re dealing with a serial killer who’s targeting this therapy. And maybe this will help me understand why.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
December 10
Patient Number 0548
Buzz, crackle, shivery light. Fear. It was up ahead, she sensed it as much as she saw it, the pulse of light and dark, light and dark, the way nothing else existed in this black landscape except the pulsing gas station, somehow pulling her toward it. No, oh no, don’t make me go there. Not there.
That’s when she felt the brush of something against her leg, warmth flooding her body as she reached down and petted his head. A Saint Bernard, his fur warm and soft. She continued stroking his head, back, forth, back, forth. And when the animal began to walk, toward that pulsing light, she didn’t hesitate; she moved with him.
The dog was wearing a thick collar, and Lennon gripped it, finding strength in the canine’s sure movements and the fact that she was not alone. She felt the love of the animal radiating through her hand and down her limbs and knew that he would not leave her side, no matter what happened.
The gas station was deserted except for one lone car, the red Mazda that Tanner had been driving since high school. Oh. She heard a brittle noise, as though her heart were made of glass and a crack had just zippered down the middle. She’d forgotten that car. Where had it gone?
The dog nudged her thigh, and she kept moving, toward the door to that convenience store where her world had split in two. She was currently in the before, but when she stepped inside, she’d be in the after. She wanted to stay here, in the place where young men with their whole future in front of them didn’t die, in the place where life happened just as you’d planned it. Oh, it hurt. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, and she couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t bear the feeling of standing in the shoes of the girl she’d been, such hopeful surety in her heart. An ache rose inside so massive that it threatened to sweep her away. Back, forth, back, forth. She gripped his collar as the Saint Bernard who loved her rubbed his head on her leg, soothing, comforting. You can do this. I’m right here.
But I don’t want to. Why must I?
Because you must be able to tell your story. All of it. It has a beginning, a middle, and an end. You’ve forgotten the middle, haven’t you? The middle is the most important part.
The dog nudged her, and so she moved with him, pulling the door open and entering the store. The lights were soft in here, no buzzing. Just a quiet store on a quiet night, the clerk sitting behind the counter, reading a textbook and singing along to the Muzak playing on the speakers overhead. The music became louder, blaring in her head for a moment, about piña coladas and walking in the rain. Then as quickly as it’d blared, it lowered, and that’s when she saw him. “Tanner,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. Oh. Her heart squeezed and dipped and expanded. “Tanner.” He was laughing, and his hair had fallen over his forehead the way it did. She hadn’t remembered so many things about him, and she felt terrible about that. But she could memorize them now because he was here, right in front of her, alive.