Page 69 of The Broken Places

Later, at home, her mom had read to her, passages and quotes that had given her hope that she still had a life in front of her. That even though it felt like it, the agony she was in wasn’t going to last forever. Her mother had held her as she’d cried, and she’d listened when she was ready to talk. Lennon had even curled up on her mother’s lap a time or two, a nineteen-year-old girl who still couldn’t have managed without the tenderness of a mother’s love.

Her father had been a solid presence, looking on with worried eyes, grief etched into his stoic features. He’d held her, too, but she knew he also held her mother, wiping away his wife’s tears so she could be there for their daughter. Her brother had sat on her bed and held her hand, uncharacteristically silent, his fingers laced with hers. Later, he’d stood beside her at the funeral, arms linked. They had cared for her, even while grieving their own loss.

What if she hadn’t had all that? What if she’d been left to deal with her grief on her own? Even more unthinkable, what if she’d been forced to hide it away? It would have been unbearable. She didn’t think she’d have survived such a thing without losing her mind.

“Inspector Gray?”

She startled, so lost in her own thoughts she’d zoned out for a few minutes. When she turned from the window, there was a middle-aged doctor in a white coat standing near the doorway. “I’m Dr. Sing,” shesaid, giving her a tired smile. “You’re here about the woman brought in this morning?”

“Yes. What’s her status?”

The doctor sighed. “We had to sedate her. We couldn’t get her to stop screaming. The EMTs who brought her in had used restraints, as she seemed to be attempting to scratch her own eyes out.” Her expression was disturbed, which was probably saying something, considering where the woman worked and what she likely saw day in and day out. “She was also seizing, and her speech was garbled, indicating brain damage. Basically, Inspector Gray, she’s extremely ill. Physically? She has some lacerations, but nothing that won’t heal. Her mental condition is the main concern. Unfortunately, we don’t currently have a bed for her, so we have her in the hallway while we’re attempting to shuffle others around. That usually means sending a few to jail. But that’s the system for now.”

“Jail?”For people hospitalized for a mental condition?

“I wish I had another choice. But it’s either that or spitting them back onto the streets. Often they’re experiencing suicidal ideation, so that’s not an option.”

Wow.“Doctor, do you have any guesses about what happened to her?”

“Without knowing more about what she went through, and without her test results back, I’m not willing to make an official diagnosis.”

“Unofficially?”

A voice came over the loudspeaker, paging Dr. Sing’s name, and the doctor looked behind herself and then back to Lennon. “Unofficially, your victim had a complete mental breakdown. I have to go, but give me your card, and I’ll call you if your victim wakes up and is coherent.”

Lennon made her way down to the parking lot, walking in a fog to her car, trying desperately to shake off the heaviness of that ward.Your victim had a complete mental breakdown.She glanced up at the building behind her, a small shiver going down her spine when she pictured that desolate ward full of society’s castoffs.The fringe.She understoodwhy Jamal Whitaker had named his podcast as such. And there were so many of them, there weren’t enough beds. They spilled out into the halls and onto the streets. She felt so goddamned sad. There was no other way to say it.

She used her key fob to open her door, then got in and sat there for a minute, thinking, her finger smoothing a corner of duct tape that had begun to lift on her window. Her vandalized car seemed so trivial when so many were dealing with catastrophic issues.

She brought her hand to her forehead and attempted to massage away the beginning of a headache. She needed to go into the station and read the case file, get back to work. But suddenly, it all felt souseless, and she couldn’t let it feel that way. She’d seen the overworked doctors rushing through the halls of the psych ward. She saw frustrated first responders every day at her work, who started out wanting to make a difference but were quickly disabused of that dream by red tape and reality. She saw burned-out inspectors who were stretched so thin they had little time for actual investigation. And often the public worked against you, anyway, so it was easy to askWhy bother?

The woman at Dr. Sweeton’s office, hooked up to the wires, a team of people surrounding her, had alarmed Lennon. It had disturbed her. It’d looked like nothing she’d ever seen. Because the treatment being given—if she decided to call it that—was completely unorthodox. Illegal. Unethical.Wasn’t it?There had to be protocols for that type of thing, or people could be hurt. They might regret what they’d agreed to when they were in a vulnerable state of mind.

What else is there?

Not a lot. But that didn’t mean it was right.

She thought back to Dr. Sweeton’s talk and the man who had asked whether those who’ve experienced chronic trauma are brain damaged.Yes,the doctor had answered.The first step in healing must target the brain itself.

But even if that type of treatment were legal, who was going to pay for it? She supposed that right now, San Francisco’s elite, who soughtout Dr. Sweeton for psychiatry, were funding it. But on a massive scale? Would it even be possible?

You don’t have to turn us in, Lennon. You can help.

Surprisingly, her fingers began moving on the steering wheel, tapping out a melody she’d thought she’d long ago forgotten, on invisible piano keys. Her mind had held on to it, and for whatever reason, in a moment of deep confusion and overwhelming upset, it’d sprung from the recesses of her memories.

Lennon remembered when she’d first begun learning to play, and even later, when lessons became more complicated. The way she’d dream about her fingers on the keys, the way her brain would go over and over the movements without her permission. Maybe that’s what brains did: learned through intense cerebral repetition. But what if the thing it was learning was a horror being engraved inside? Etched so deep you could never forget. Wouldn’t such a thing drive you mad? How could it not?

How could it not?

The decision not to report Project Bluebird could have serious repercussions on her life and her career. It would mean she’d made the conscious choice not to report illegal activity involving victims.

But are they victims? Or are they being saved?That’s really what this all boiled down to. And if these traumatized human beings were being saved, as Ambrose said they were, then this was far bigger than her, personal repercussions or not.

She needed to get herself back on track. And God, she was desperate to be sure about something once more. Her whole world had been toppled—again—and she had this vague sense that though she wanted order, it shouldn’t be put back the way it was before.

Lennon took out her phone and searched Google for Ambrose DeMarce. The only hits came from seventeen years before. She opened the article from a small-town online newspaper in Kentucky. “Kentucky?” she murmured. He’d told her he was born and raised in San Francisco. Then again, he’d been lying about almost every other personal detail, so why not that one too?

She quickly read through the article and then sat back, tapping that tune again. Ambrose DeMarce had been part of an investigation in Kentucky where he helped solve a cold crime that his grandfather had committed. His grandfather, Waylon DeMarce, had raped and murdered nine-year-old Milo Taft and buried his body on his property. Her fingers faltered. Ambrose had been a child, too, when he witnessed the murder. The traumatic event had been dredged up during a therapy session, and he’d returned to Kentucky to tell authorities what he remembered and give Milo’s family the peace they’d been denied for over a decade. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t see justice delivered to Milo’s killer, as Waylon DeMarce had died years earlier. Ambrose DeMarce had been a twenty-one-year-old young man when Milo’s body was exhumed.

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