Page 40 of The Broken Places

“Yup. The same Benjamin Buttons are on the windowsill over there.”Benjamin Buttons.For a moment, he was confused.Ah, “BB.”They’d nicknamed it because they had no idea what it stood for.

She pointed to the dusty window to his right, and as he walked over to it, he moved past a dead man on the floor wearing the same eternal scream that he’d seen on the face of the woman identified as Cherish. Jesus, that was hard to look at. Because it spoke of the suffering that man had experienced as he took his very final breath. But the termeternal screamnaturally made him wonder if they’d landed in the afterlife unable to shake the horror of their death. For this man, and perhaps the others, there hadn’t even been an instant of peace as the air drained from his lungs and his heart slowed to a stop. It disturbed him greatly,because this was the third face at similar scenes that had looked just like that. Two might have been a coincidence, but three meant some devil had figured out how to repeat the terror that occurred for these people just before they died. That face was not natural. That was the face you only saw in the mirror when you woke from the worst nightmare of your life, screaming and sweating and prying invisible hands from around your neck.

He had an idea of how it might have been achieved, but it was too demented to consider just now, especially with the scent of fear and human decay heavy in the air.

The pills were scattered on the dusty windowsill, same shape, same imprint—only these ones were a pale blue instead of lavender. What did that indicate? That something had been changed? Or achieved?

Teresa came up behind him. “Same ‘BB’ imprint. But a different color, so maybe they’re from a different batch? Tests will confirm. I already took photos, but be careful about disturbing them because I haven’t done more than that.”

He gave her a distracted nod. Teresa turned, going back over to the body she’d been working on, collecting samples and evidence and whatever else she was putting in bags using tweezers. He needed some of those pills. And it was unfortunate that the windowsill was so dusty, because there was no way to take some without making it obvious. Not to mention she’d taken photographs of the number of pills. But he was here for a reason, and he had to do what must be done. It didn’t mean he liked it. It meant he had his priorities in line.

He leaned over, pretending to peer at the pills, and brushed several off the ledge into his palm and then turned, walking to the body in the far corner and pocketing them as he moved.

He walked from one bludgeoned, bloodied body to another, his gaze moving over the wounds and specifics that he could see, taking stock.

He cataloged all the items he could see and came to the same conclusion he was sure Teresa would—they’d used any available items as weapons. Amassacrehad occurred here.

The first two scenes had featured two bodies, the third three, and now this one was four. Things were escalating, the pile of bodies growing. And there was some dreadful point here that he thought he was beginning to understand.

“Could you tell if all the murder weapons are accounted for?” he asked Teresa.

She looked up from the woman on the floor. “From an initial glance, it appears that all the weapons are accounted for and that they used items just lying around,” she said, gesturing over to a piece of twisted metal on the floor by the wall. From this angle, Ambrose could see the blood on the sharp, rusted edge. “I haven’t confirmed yet, but stick around.”

Ambrose gave her a thin smile. That wouldn’t be possible. And he trusted this woman’s initial assessment. She seemed competent and observant, and she’d been doing this job for a long time.

He noticed some disturbed dust on the floor near the corner, where there were a few toppled crates. The marks next to them appeared to be shoe imprints, if the person had worn shoes with completely flat soles.Or booties over his footwear.He looked up to see a wooden beam stretching to the opposite wall. “Teresa, did you see this?” he asked, glancing back at her.

She looked up, her gaze going to the floor where he was pointing. “Imprints?”

“Yes, but it looks like these ones belong to someone wearing booties. The details of the soles are completely missing.”

She frowned and then leaned so that she could see the soles of the shoes on the feet of the victim she was next to. Then she glanced over at the other bodies. “I’ll check their shoes, but if the dust is recently disturbed, those might belong to an unknown subject. Maybe the one who anonymously called this in? I’ll make sure to take some samples.”

He nodded distractedly. Had the person who’d given these victims the pills used the crates to climb up and place something on the beam? A recording device, perhaps? One he came back to retrieve beforecalling this in? Was he watching it now? Replaying the carnage? Theaftermathof this was awful enough. To see it live? And to enjoy it? He couldn’t begin to imagine how sick you’d have to be. “I’m going to go look outside and see if I spot anything,” he said to Teresa, who was once again deeply immersed in her work.

“Okay. See you soon,” she murmured.

His stomach knotted, and regret was a strong acid burning the lining of his gut. Given all the emotions he felt, standing in a room with four people who’d died horrifying deaths, he felt like he might lose his lunch. He took a few deep breaths, managing to contain the nausea. He wished he had another choice than what he was about to do. He really did.

Lennon.What was she doing right now? It was after dinnertime. He pictured her cozied up on her couch, a blanket over her lap, and the picture his mind conjured made his heart squeeze with longing. The department wouldn’t figure out what he’d done for a couple of hours. She’d probably be greeted by the news in the morning. And then she’d hate him.

As Ambrose stepped through the door, a couple of marked cars were pulling up, and two other criminalists were just ducking beneath the tape. He greeted them with a nod and then walked past, going around the corner and then taking up a slow jog as he moved away. He’d call an Uber once he’d gone a few miles. His “job” at the SFPD had come to an end.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The sun had barely finished rising when Lennon drove through the cemetery gates. She parked and walked slowly toward the familiar grave, resting her hand on top of the stone when she stopped in front of it. It was cold beneath her palm, not just from the chill of the night but also because Tanner’s family had chosen a beautiful spot beneath a large oak that kept it mostly in shade.

Lennon threw down the blanket she kept in her trunk and knelt on the dewy grass and ran her hand over his name. “Hi, Tanner. I’m sorry it’s been so long.” She reached out and plucked a dead leaf off the fall flowers planted in front of his grave. Unlike her, Tanner’s mother came here regularly and made sure the plantings were fresh and his stone was free of dirt and moss. She continued to care for him in the only way she was able, and Lennon hoped it helped her, even if only a little.

“I haven’t checked in on your parents in too long either.” What had it been? Three months now? Four? In the thirteen years since Tanner had died, Lennon had never gone that long without contacting them, and now it almost felt like she’d have to explain herself if she called. So she’d kept putting it off. Because really? She didn’t have an explanation. She’d just been busy living and working. And she’d thought about them, but she hadn’t reached out. She hadn’t even called to wish them a happy Thanksgiving. A lump formed in her chest, and she felt a flailing inside. Maybe being too busy was only an excuse. Maybe she’d wanted to putsome distance between them. Maybe she wasready, and so instead of addressing it, she’d told herself she’d just forgotten.

“I don’t want to let them go,” she told Tanner as though he’d been keeping up with her inner thoughts, her inner struggling, “because it feels like letting another part of you go too.” She let out a shaky sigh. “But sometimes I wonder if it keeps us all stuck, in a way. Sometimes I wonder if that ringing of the phone each month is just a reminder of the pain, and maybe, in a way, they dread it.”

Or maybe I do.

Maybe those calls had started feeling like an anchor to the pain and she’d wanted to unmoor herself and create some distance. She wanted to know what that shore looked like from a different vantage point. Maybe if she drifted for a little while, the sunrise would come into view.

She shifted so she was sitting on her hip and brought her legs to the side. “Work has been intense though, Tan. You’d laugh so hard if you saw me walking around crime scenes and standing over dead bodies in the ME’s office. Remember that time I almost passed out when you sliced your foot on a piece of glass at the beach?” She let out a huffy laugh. “I’ve changed a lot since high school. I wonder how you would have changed. I miss you, you know that?” The rawness of grief had faded, but sometimes, even more now than when she’d begun healing, she’d feel a wave of it. It felt like losing him all over again when she considered who he’d be now. Because she—they—hadn’t only lost Tanner when he was nineteen; they’d lost him at every age he’d never be. And so in some sense, the loss never stopped. In many ways, it deepened over time.

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