Page 78 of The Broken Places

“Why are you asking about Brittany Sweeton?”

“Just spitballing,” she said with a smile. He smiled back. The question troubled him, though, and that small tremble he’d come to know as instinct rattled inside. He’d witnessed a few terse phone calls between the doctor and his wife in the last week. He’d sensed some marital trouble but dismissed it as temporary and likely related to the current stress the doctor was under. But murder? Or participating in murder? That didn’t sound like the Brittany he’d known for many years. Sure, she was materialistic and somewhat shallow. And she’d made some suggestive comments to Ambrose over the years that were inappropriate, considering she was married. But he’d brushed her off, and she’d let it go. So yeah, personally he wasn’t her biggest fan.But what if?Lennon’s instincts were good—and they weren’t muddled by preconceived views because of familiarity.

What if the marital trouble he’d witnessed had been going on for longer than he knew? What if Brittany had done something, either knowingly or not, that had begun this whole cascade of murder and revenge?

He looked back at the laptop, scrolling down the page of photos posted by Rays of Hope, his gaze shifting distractedly over the images. They appeared mostly to be shots from functions either at the foundation or other locations, the outfits and hairstyles of those in the pictures indicating the rewinding years. He froze near the bottom of the page, his heart giving a strong jolt. “Holy shit.”

“What?” she asked, leaning forward to get a better view of the screen.

He turned it toward her and brought his index finger to the photo of an obviously younger Franco sitting at a table with Doc and someonehe recognized from an old photo he’d seen in Doc’s office. “It’s Doc and his ex-wife, Gwendolyn.”

“Doc and Franco know each other?”

“Either that or they just attended the same event.”

She studied the photo for a moment before her eyes met his. “This might be nothing but a coincidence, and that photo is obviously many years old. It wouldn’t be surprising if everyone in the TL was connected in some way. But ... Ambrose, do you think ...” She looked away, biting at her lip, obviously at a loss for exactly what this meant.

He set the computer aside and then picked up his phone again, this time dialing Doc’s number rather than just leaving a text. It went straight to voicemail, and Ambrose hung up with a frustrated huff. “I think we should go talk to Doc,” Ambrose said. Lennon nodded, getting up off the bed and putting on her shoes.

He had a deep feeling Franco and Dr. Sweeton being at very least acquainted at some point was anything but a coincidence. He just had no idea what the connection was.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Dr. Alexander Sweeton held the photograph in his hand, gazing down at his daughter, Nancy, and his first wife, Gwendolyn. They’d gone to Disneyland in Los Angeles and spent four days in the park, riding rides, eating snow cones, and buying overpriced mouse memorabilia.

It’d been wonderful.

And the last vacation he’d ever taken.

His first marriage had fallen apart after Nancy’s ... attack. They hadn’t survived the grief and the trauma and the guilt of what had happened to their only child. Gwen was remarried now and living close to Disney World in Florida. He wondered if she ever drove past it, or perhaps spent an afternoon there, and thought about those four dream-filled days in another life altogether.

He’d been alone for a long time after Nancy died and Gwen left. He’d devoted himself completely to the project. But then he’d met Brittany at a cocktail party. She was much younger than him, and they had little in common. But she’d made him laugh. She’d made him feel like a man again. She’d helped him remember the true value of a full life and why he’d made it his passion to help others live the one they’d been denied.

He deserved some happiness, too, didn’t he? And wouldn’t it make him not only a better person but a better doctor for his patients if heenjoyed a more well-rounded life? Those had all been justifications, though. He saw that now. His ego had gotten the best of him, and perhaps it was his fatal flaw.

Their marriage wasn’t working. They both knew it. What should have been a quick and pleasant affair had turned into a stale, resentment-filled union. Their relationship had been ill fated from the beginning, but he’d certainly sped their demise along by making her his last priority.

She’d been dressing differently for months now. Sexier. Wearing outfits similar to the ones she’d worn when they’d first started dating, before she’d become a doctor’s wife and seemed to change her style to fit the role. And he’d seen her entering a hotel near his office with a man he recognized as a high-priced tax attorney. He’d waited for the anger to come, or even the disappointment. But the only emotion that had washed over him as he’d sat in traffic watching them laughing and disappearing through the front doors was relief. He was responsible for the affair she was obviously having. He’d been absent and distracted, and he’d married her for all the wrong reasons, convincing himself the bounce in his step from her affection was love.

He’d insisted on a prenuptial agreement, perhaps because, deep inside, he was aware that their relationship was unlikely to last, but mostly to protect the money he’d stowed away from his highly lucrative practice and many speaking engagements that he used to fund Project Bluebird. The project he’d dedicated his life to was very expensive. There was equipment, and testing, and lab fees, and aftercare. He had employees to train, and a hundred other expenses, big and small. It was because he’d protected his wealth that the project continued and grew. He could not gamble with it, lest he gamble with Nancy’s legacy.

And now he knew that despite Brittany leaving their marriage with no more than she’d arrived with, she’d be just fine.

With a sigh, he set the photograph of Nancy and his first wife back on the bookshelf behind him, facing away from it. He set his elbows on his desk and rested his forehead on the heels of his hands. He’dtried so hard to redeem himself, to leave a legacy that Nancy would be proud of, to make amends for his mistakes with his daughter by helping others who were suffering the same way she had. And he had helped. He had. So many saved souls. He was proud of that. He’d sacrificed for it. But then things had gone so horribly wrong, and he couldn’t figure outhow. Or why.

He’d gone to see the woman in the psychiatric ward who had survived the most recent attempted murder—after all, that’s what it was, only not just an attempted murder of the body but of the mind and soul—and it’d almost brought him to his knees. Broken him. Not only had she been dropped into the epicenter of her trauma, but she seemed to be stuck there. Death would have been kinder than that. And so the best the hospital could do was keep her unconscious. The fact that the altered drug had been formulated so that even when the narcotic wore off, the result did not, was a horror he hadn’t expected. He’d been working around the clock to create an antidote based on the pill Ambrose had provided him. But so far, the antidote was weak and would likely only work on those who’d absorbed a small amount of the toxin. Not doses like the one taken by the woman in the hospital, who had already dropped in a black hole in her own mind and was too far gone. And he couldn’t administer the pill that had been formulated to induce violence just so he could test his antidote. If he did that, he’d turn into the man who’d twisted his project.

Maybe he was no better. He’d thought he was. But because of him, this was happening. The work of his heart had been corrupted. Perhaps everything good eventually was.

Or perhaps if it could be corrupted, it wasn’t good at all. He’d convinced himself it was good because he needed it to be. Back to his own ego, once again.

God, he was so tired. He’d come home early to sleep for a few hours. He’d been up for days, and his faculties were failing him. A few hours’ rest and he’d feel better, and then he’d persevere.

He began to rise from his desk, picking up his silenced phone and noticing that he’d missed a text from Ambrose, and a call as well. He read the text asking about a Franco Girone.

Franco Girone.

Where did he know that name from? Another text came through from Ambrose.

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