Page 64 of The Broken Places

“I’m not sure,” he said honestly. “But I think so, and I know I’ll never fully find peace until I do what I didn’t do then—call for help.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Ambrose raised his hand to knock on Lennon’s apartment door, but before he could, it pulled open and she was standing there. He lowered his hand, and she stepped back and waved him inside. “You’re late.”

“By seven minutes.”

“You’re lucky I gave you leeway,” she grumbled.

She paused in the entryway, not seeming to know where to take him. There weren’t many choices in this small apartment. But he understood her hesitancy. The last time he’d been here, they’d made memories in each room. And now she wanted to remain in a neutral location, but there wasn’t one that existed here, unless they stood next to the bathroom sink.

After a moment, she turned, obviously deciding the living room was the best choice. But when he followed her the short distance there, she remained standing instead of sitting down on the couch, crossing her arms as she turned to face him.

“It’s a form of therapy you’re using to treat people with trauma,” she said.

He nodded. God, he was tired. It’d been a long day, and then he’d been assisting with Xiomara’s treatment for hours, which took an incredible amount of focus. How could it not, when you were basically tiptoeing through someone else’s memories? He hadn’t played apivotal role, but he had been part of the revisiting of her story. “Yes,” he said. “Dr. Sweeton began working on Project Bluebird twenty-two years ago.”

“Why is it called Project Bluebird?”

“Because his daughter, who was his first patient, chose a bluebird as her guide.”

“Guide?”

He blew out a breath, raking his fingers through his hair. “You have to keep an open mind when I tell you about this, Lennon. It’s difficult to understand before you’ve been through it. Some of it will sound unbelievable—weird, even, for lack of a better word.”

“Go on.”

He gestured to the couch. “Please. Can I sit down? I’ve been on my feet for hours.”

She glanced at the couch and then back at him, agreeing with a barely discernible nod. He walked to the couch and sat down, gathering his thoughts. “Nancy was Dr. Sweeton’s daughter. She’d been the victim of a crime when she was young. She started acting out, drinking, doing drugs. Eventually she ended up on the streets, experiencing more trauma. Trauma compounding trauma.”

Lennon approached the couch and sat down where she had when they’d been here before, but sliding all the way to the very end and then turning toward him. He chose not to face her just yet. It made beginning this story easier. “Nancy spent time in facility after facility. Those places ... if you’re not traumatized before you enter, you probably will be by the time you leave. The doctors and nurses mostly mean well, but they have so few tools other than endless medication. People who are extremely unwell are locked up together and left to interact with each other in ways no therapist would suggest.”

“Yes, I went to the doctor’s talk.”

He did look at her then. “I heard. But you know from experience too. You know because you’ve met those people. You’ve peered into their eyes.”

She looked away first, but she didn’t deny what he’d said. “Nancy attempted suicide multiple times,” he went on. “She went to rehabilitation centers. She got clean, then she relapsed. Dr. Sweeton had been having success with veterans suffering from PTSD. He was using some hallucinogens to bring them back to the scene of their trauma in a safe way. But Nancy’s trauma had happened when she was very young, before her mind was mature enough to fully parse the event. And so those treatments simply didn’t work on her. He needed to go deeper. And so, over the years, he developed the mix of substances and the protocol for what is now known as Project Bluebird.”

“What happened to Nancy?”

He paused. He didn’t want to start off this way, but it was the beginning of the story, so she had to know. “Nancy died.”

“How?”

“In a nutshell, her mind couldn’t take the influx of trauma, and she had a heart attack.” He’d seen the video of events, because they all had to understand what had happened to Nancy and how to ensure it would never happen again. Her eyes had bulged, and she’d gotten that forever scream on her face as the machines went wild and her body started seizing, and then a massive heart attack killed her where she sat. Long-term drug use had weakened her heart, but it had certainly been the regression back to the moment of trauma that ended her life. “Because of what happened to Nancy, Dr. Sweeton spent a year perfecting the treatment. And then, when it was applied again, it was slowed way, way down. Instead of a single session, it’s done over seven days. The patient is kept in a coma in between the delivery of hallucinogens, and in some cases are put in sensory deprivation tanks. It depends on the results of the tests that are run and whether attachment bonds are present in the individual, and a whole battery of other factors.”

Lennon let out a small laugh barren of humor and massaged her temples. “This is too crazy to be real. My God.” She stood, crossed her arms over her breasts, and paced in front of the coffee table. “You can’tmess with people’s minds like that! It’s deeply unethical. And because of it, someone died. His own daughter!”

Ambrose stood, too, facing her. “These people are already dead. You have to see that. Or if they’re not dead, they’re dying. A slow, miserable death. Lennon, there are laws about the right to try experimental medication once all your other options have failed. These people are hopelessly sick, too, their brains twisted in ways that can’t be untwisted through traditional psychological protocol. They’re suffering more immensely than I can communicate, and I’d make the argument that they’re suffering far worse than someone with an inoperable tumor or other physical disease. You’ve grieved, Lennon. You’ve felt that crushing horror that goes on and on and on.”

“Don’t. You don’t get to use what I shared with you when I thought you could be trusted.”

He exhaled a sharp breath. Okay, he deserved that. But it still hurt. “Imagine that pain, but more extreme. Imagine knowing that that pain will never end. What would you do? You’d do anything. You’d do anything at all. Don’t others deserve the option?”

She pressed her lips together, turning her face from him. “It’s ... no. I don’t know. It’s toorisky.”

“These people, Lennon, they’re dying on the streets right in front of us. They’re scratching and screaming for help, and we walk right by. They’re begging for mercy, even though they have no earthly idea what mercy is.”

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