Page 50 of The Broken Places

He looked over his shoulder to see an elderly woman in a green bathrobe, holding a spatula in her hands. The smell of something frying met his nose. “It’s too late for this kind of noise. Brandy’s obviously not home.”

“Have you seen her recently?”

The woman lifted her gaze, as though considering. “Not for a couple days, but—”

“I think I hear a baby crying from inside.”

The woman frowned, walking to where he was and placing her own ear against the door. “You’re right. That’s Nadia. I hear her.” She looked up at him. “Ah, shit. Brandy left her alone again. I told that girl to bring her over to me if she needed a sitter, but she swore she only left her if it was for less than an hour and she was sleeping. Stupid girl.”

“Do you have a key?”

“No. The maintenance man has one, but he’ll already have gone home. The owner is an agency or corporation, and they never answer calls. They don’t even have an email, just a box on their website where you’re supposed to let them know you’d like a call back. Such bull—”

Ambrose stepped back, lifted his leg, and easily kicked in the door as the woman next to him cowered to the side. The door bounced back off its broken hinges, allowing him access. The cry could be heard more clearly now that the door was open, and he drew back at the smell of death. Ambrose moved toward the cry, the sounds of the neighbor woman following behind.

His heart dropped when he stopped in the bedroom doorway and saw the scene inside. A woman, her body purple and bloated, lay dead on the floor, the needle she’d overdosed with still stuck in her arm. And next to her, a toddler girl lay on the floor, hand clutching her lifeless mother’s shirt.

“Oh my God. Oh my God,” the woman behind him chanted. “Oh, Nadia.”

Ambrose swooped up the baby girl, the scent of decay heavy on her clothing, her face red and streaked with tears. She’d soiled her diaper, and the scent of that mixed with the smell of rot almost overwhelmed Ambrose, but he breathed through his nose and held the little girl tightly to him as he left the room.

The little girl, Nadia, started screaming more loudly, twisting in his arms and reaching her arms out for her mother. Jesus Christ, what was this going to do to the child?

“Shh,” he cooed. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. You’re safe.”

He heard the neighbor on the phone with the police, giving them the address of Brandy’s apartment. Help would be here soon, and Ambrose couldn’t be around when they arrived. The neighbor hung up the phone, and Ambrose handed the sobbing child to her. She laid her head down on the woman’s shoulder, obviously exhausted by whatever she’d been through over the past few days while her mother’s body bloated with gas and began to decay in front of her. “Take care of her,” he told the neighbor, who looked shell shocked, her skin a sickly tint of green, as though she might be sick any moment. But she nodded, managing to hold it down as she stroked the little girl’s hair.

Ambrose turned, taking a moment to glance around the living room and into the kitchen on his way out. Nothing looked out of place, but he spotted a single business card stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet. He took the few steps to it, sliding it from beneath the magnet and slipping it into his pocket.Inspector Lennon Gray.Just as he’d suspected, Lennon was still on the case, whether she had permission or not. Something about that made him strangely proud, but he also had the urge to swear and topple a table. He did neither, merely leaving through the broken front door, finding some solace in the fact that the baby had stopped crying and the police sirens could be heard drawing closer. She’d been saved. He only prayed she wasn’t like the countless children who experienced similar circumstances and were thrown out of the frying pan and into the fire.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Courage, dear heart.

—C. S. Lewis

Seventeen Years Ago

Patient Number 0022

Jett followed his guide as she flew down the dirt road that led from the farm, gliding and soaring but never dipping out of sight. And when Jett felt scared or confused, his guide sensed it and immediately came to perch on his shoulder, those feathery wings brushing against his cheek, comforting.Back, forth, back, forth.

He followed the dove into the small town where he’d gone to school. Jett walked through the playground, misty images of children running and swinging and climbing the jungle gym, echoes of their laughter a tinny ringing in his ears. He saw strings of light connecting each child to the other, twining and then untangling as they crossed paths, illuminated numbers rising in the air that were slightly off, with odd slants here and double lines there, that he didn’t know the meaning of. But somehow he also understood that they weren’t really numbers but some language he didn’t know that his brain had converted to mostly recognizable digits.

One of the shadows was his childhood self, sitting alone on the bench, trying to be invisible. Jett sat down beside him, and he took his hand. He hurt, and he smelled bad, and the other kids stayed away from him because he was weird and he stank. He pushed others sometimes and yelled when they came up behind him, and the kids thought it was for no reason at all. But there was a reason—not that Jett could ever tell. It was a secret, the one his grandfather had buried him under, and he didn’t want it, but there was no way to get out from beneath it now—and the longer he kept it, the heavier it became.

Itfedoff him, and it grew and grew and grew. It crushed him and strangled him, and it was so heavy it trapped the words in his throat. Sometimes Jett pictured that secret like a giant monster wrapped around him, its tentacles invading his body the same way his grandfather did. Except the monster was invisible, and it slithered over his bones and squeezed his organs and penetrated his brain, and he couldn’t ever rid himself of the monster ... because in some way, he’dbecomeit. It was bad, and he was bad, and he couldn’t differentiate between one and the other. The monster made his body do things he hadn’t asked it to do. He yelped and fought when he was startled by the smallest thing. He felt numb, and so he scratched at his skin so he could see if he was still alive. And even then, he didn’t know, so he might be dead. Death might be never-ending, forever pain, and that was the most terrifying thing of all.Shh,his guide said, brushing feathers across his cheek, quieting his mind.Back, forth, back, forth. Thud, thud, thud.

Wiggle your toes.

Feel the dirt beneath your feet.

Jett did, and the ground anchored him. He was in his body, and he was standing on the ground, and he had fingers that could move and a heart that pounded to the same rhythm as the distant beat reverberating in the air.Thud, thud, thud.

Are we done here?

Those numbers that weren’t exactly numbers mixed and mingled in the air, changing into other numbers and then dripping away likeglittery rain. He had this vague flash of understanding that those numbers explained everything. But he couldn’t read it, so it didn’t matter. The misty images of the children who hadn’t understood his pain faded, becoming air that blew away. He clasped the hand of the boy who was him, and the boy turned, laying his head on Jett’s chest and falling inside.Done.

He followed his guide to the high school and the bowling alley where he’d worked. He saw himself here, there, and everywhere. He watched his happy moments and his sad. He’d hurt people, and they hadn’t known why. He watched himself drink his first beer, remembered the way the pain grew fuzzy and the blessed oblivion that had come. He watched himself hurl terrible insults at a girlfriend who had teasingly grabbed his ass while they were making out because he didn’t want anyone to touch him there, not ever, but especially not in a moment of weakness, when his guard was down. He liked sex for the same reason he liked beer, for the oblivion it brought. But he had too many triggers, and she’d crossed one. And she’d cried, and he’d apologized, but he’d never spoken to her again after that. He couldn’t; the shame was too great. And he set his hand on that boy’s shoulder and told him it was okay, and the boy that was him folded inside, and Jett continued on.

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