Page 26 of The Broken Places

He laughed, and they both stood straight. Ambrose tipped his head and looked up at the stars he’d just been up close and personal with, thinking how much wonder there was in the world. How much beauty and how much cruelty.

When he looked over at Lennon, she was gazing up at the night sky too. “I can’t see the stars very well from my apartment,” she said. “But I have a pretty decent view of the city. Sometimes I sit out there and think about how beautiful it looks from far away, all sparkly and still. And then I remember what’s actually happening in those little pockets of darkness.”

Little pockets of darkness.She looked at him, and he nodded. She was right, and he’d been thinking about that darkness too. But he’d also been thinking about the pockets of hope, and tonight was one. Ithad been such a simple, beautiful night surrounded by the chatter and laughter of a close-knit family. He’d had so few of those, and though it wasn’t his to keep, he knew he’d hold the memory close forever, the same way he did that cold January morning in a country where he’d gone to hunt down a predator.

Later, after he’d said goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Gray and Peter, Lennon drove him to the hotel where he’d told her he was staying and pulled up in front. “Thanks for tonight,” he said.

She smiled. “My family, they’re a special case.”

“They are. In a good way. I ... had a really good time. Surprisingly.”

She tilted her head. “You didn’t expect to have a good time?”

“Not that good a time.”

She laughed softly. “Okay. Well then, my utter humiliation was worth it.”

He glanced out the window, up at the building next to them, and then back at her. “You’re lucky.” He wondered if she knew just how fortunate she was and thought she probably did. They were characters, but the love in that room was so bright, it’d practically blinded him.

“They’re good for some comic relief anyway. Kind of a little break from murder and mayhem.”

“A break is good. It keeps you sane.”

“It does.”

He paused, and there was a short moment of awkwardness before he said goodbye one last time and got out of her car. He watched as she waved and drove away, waiting until her car disappeared out of sight. And then Ambrose turned away from the hotel that he’d lied to Lennon about staying at and began walking in the opposite direction.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Seventeen Years Ago

Patient Number 0022

“Hi, I’m Dr. Sweeton. Please, have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Vodka,” Jett murmured.

Dr. Sweeton smiled. “I’m afraid the strongest I have to offer is diet soda.”

Jett let out a short snort. “Water then.” He ran his hands over his thighs toward his knees, and then reversed course. The jean fabric felt rough on his palms. Painful. The doctor took a bottle of water from a minifridge near the window and brought it back to Jett. He wasn’t thirsty, but it gave him something to do with his hands. Or maybe he was thirsty. Sometimes it was hard to tell. Sometimes all his physical needs ran together, creating a vast open hole of what he could only call hunger that he had no idea how to feed. But sometimes that same feeling came when he’d eaten and had water and was warm enough and gotten at least a few hours of sleep and even had some dope, and so he wondered if the need was something other than physical. Didn’t matter. He could barely fulfill the demands of his body, much less needs far more vague.

Jett unscrewed the cap and took a long drink. The doctor observed him, but not in the way most doctors did—lips thinned, impatientexpression, gaze constantly darting to the clock on the wall. The ones Jett had seen were used to dealing with junkies. Dr. Sweeton opened his chart and glanced over it. “You’re on quite a few prescription medications,” he noted. He closed the folder and set it aside. “But you’re self-medicating, too, yes?”

Jett hesitated, but there was no disapproving tone in the doctor’s voice. And Jett knew it was obvious he was a user anyway, so who cared? “Yeah.”

The doctor leaned forward. “Tell me about the schizophrenia. What are your symptoms?”

Jett blew out a breath, capped the water, and set it aside. He wanted a smoke, but there was aNO SMOKINGsign in the lobby of this building and right inside the door of the doctor’s office too. He glanced at it and then away. “Hallucinations.”

“Auditory or visual?”

He pictured the little boy, heard his voice and the way a strange bleating sound started up every time he saw him. “Both.”

“Is there something specific you see, or does it vary?”

He picked up the water again, took a sip, dropped the cap, and set the open bottle aside. “I see a kid. A boy. He ... he torments me. He runs into traffic or off buildings. He hides. But I feel him there all the time. I know he’s not real, but it’s like, he is. When I see him, I doubt myself and think he’s real, and I have to save him or ...” His breath came fast, heart clamoring.

“Or what?”

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