Page 79 of The Broken Places

On the way over.

And there was a link below the message that brought up a photo. He stared, his skin suddenly prickling, mind buzzing. The man in the photo, whom he now recognized as Franco, had been a little older than in this image the last time he’d seen him in person ... and Franco hadn’t been smiling then, like he was in the photo. It all drifted to him in foggy snippets of memory. Franco’s mother, the woman who’d run Rays of Hope in the Tenderloin, had just been killed. He’d met the man—how old had Franco been then? Twenty or twenty-one?—at an event, and then later at the free clinic. He’d been deeply traumatized by his mother’s murder. Dr. Sweeton had tested him for Project Bluebird but ultimately decided he wasn’t a good candidate. The man had exhibited traits that weren’t conducive to a successful regression therapy. His psychopathy had been questionable, but the doctor hadn’t been able to tell if that was related to his current trauma or something else underlying that was already present.

He slowly lowered his phone as he thought back to the event from the photo. It’d been so long ago, but he wondered ... Dr. Sweeton stood, going over to his file cabinet and opening the bottom drawer, where he stored flyers and pictures from talks he’d given, and sometimes personal photos he was forwarded from events. Items he didn’t necessarily need, but ones he didn’t feel right throwing away either. He’d been tossing things here for years.

He picked up the box, carried it to his desk, and dumped it out. It only took a few minutes of sifting before he found what he was lookingfor. He had a hard copy of the photo that Ambrose had sent him a link to. The man who had organized the Rays of Hope event had put them in the thank-you card he’d sent later.

Dr. Sweeton tossed the card aside and went through the handful of photos, the last one in the stack nearly stealing his breath. The word he whispered as he dropped the pictures scratched over the tender skin of his throat.

Oh God.He was going to be sick. He rushed to the bathroom in his office and barely made it before he lost his lunch. Or breakfast, or whatever last meal he’d eaten. He couldn’t remember.

He felt hot and cold, faint. Panicked. Horrified.No, it can’t be. You’re wrong.Dr. Sweeton fell back on the tile floor, slumped against the wall, and cried.What the hell is happening? This can’t be true. You’re just tired.

His mind was so foggy, so saturated with shock. His world was crumbling around him.

He pulled himself slowly to his feet, flushed the toilet, and then used his cupped hand to rinse his mouth before leaving the bathroom.

He stood near his desk for several moments, doing a few deep-breathing exercises before using the search engine on his phone to look up the number for Rays of Hope. He dialed, and a young man answered.

“Yes, hello. My name is Dr. Alexander Sweeton, and I’m trying to get in contact with Franco Girone. His mother was—”

“Zeta Girone.” He heard the smile in the man’s voice. “Yes, Franco is here a few times a week, but tonight he’s at the award dinner.”

“Award dinner.”

“Yes, you just caught me, actually. We’re all heading there in a minute. Franco is accepting one in his mother’s honor.”

“For Rays of Hope? Posthumously?”

“Yes. She was an amazing advocate for those experiencing drug addiction and homelessness in the Tenderloin. It was tragic, what happened to her.”

“Yes. It was. Where is this award dinner being given?”

“Oh. At Mercy Cathedral. Do you—”

Dr. Sweeton hung up. Mercy Cathedral was less than ten minutes away. He had to speak with Franco Girone. He had to be certain he was the one. He had to stop what he himself had unknowingly started.

The doctor left his office, pausing in the hall before turning back and going to the cabinet near the door, where he had a small bar with a minifridge. He grabbed the blue nylon cooler, hooked the strap over his shoulder, and then rushed out of his house, not bothering to set the alarm.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Dr. Sweeton wasn’t answering his cell phone or his front door, and if his car was here at his house, it was locked in the garage. Lennon watched Ambrose lean forward and peer through the glass before ringing the bell again, the chime loud even from outside. “His office door is wide open,” he said. “He would never leave it open like that.”

She cupped her hands to shield the light from the sunset and pressed her forehead to the glass. “Maybe he’s the only one home and just forgot to close it. You said he was exhausted. Maybe he took a sleep aid and is out cold.”

“Maybe,” Ambrose murmured. “But we don’t have time to wait for him to wake up. Lives could be at stake.”

Their eyes met, and Ambrose set his mouth before picking up the cement planter and hurling it through the pane as they both leaned away. Lennon winced as the window shattered loudly, and Ambrose reached in and clicked the lock. No alarm sounded. Ambrose pulled the door open, and they moved inside, their feet crunching over the broken glass.

“Doc?” Ambrose called loudly as they both moved toward the open door of his office. The house remained quiet and still. The office looked mostly normal, except for the pile of papers and what looked like photos and brochures littering the top of the desk and the floor surrounding it.

“What the heck was he doing?” Lennon asked as they stepped up to the mess. She picked up an invitation to a talk that the doctor had given. “This is from ten years ago,” she said. She looked over at the open drawer of the file cabinet and to the box that was overturned on the floor, as though the doctor had poured out its contents to search for something.

Ambrose picked something up, and she felt him still beside her. “Oh shit.”

“What?”

He showed her the same photo of Franco Girone that they’d seen online, and then handed her another that was obviously from the same event. She studied it, realization dawning even if all the puzzle pieces hadn’t yet fallen into place. “Is that who I think it is?” she asked, pointing at the young woman standing to Franco’s left.

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