Page 68 of The Broken Places

“I’m here, you old bastard,” he said. “I’m here, and I’m alive, and everyone is going to know your secret. Your secret will be your legacy, but it won’t be mine.”

The sheriff arrived forty-five minutes later, the canines a few minutes after that. He’d met the sheriff the day before. He’d sat in his office and told him about the memories of Milo that had just surfaced in his therapy sessions, the memories from when he was a little boy. The man had been kind. Understanding. He’d called Milo’s family, and they’d shown up. And miraculously, they’d thanked Ambrose for coming forward.

And now, Ambrose sat there as they worked, walking the property with the dogs, stopping here and there, and finally beginning to dig out near an aspen grove at the edge of the property. Ambrose had asked to help, but the sheriff had kindly told him no. This was a potential crime scene, and they had to make sure they didn’t miss or disrupt anything.

As it turned out, there was only one grave. The diggers hit upon a wooden box holding Milo’s body a few hours later and carefully transferred it to a white body bag. Ambrose hung his head and closed his eyes as they placed Milo’s small bones in an ambulance and rounded the corner, out of sight. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He agreed to meet with the sheriff the next morning, and then he watched all the cars drive in a line down the dirt road, heading back intotown, where they’d give Milo’s parents the news that their son’s body had been found. He didn’t imagine it would make it much easier, but at least now they’d have a place where they could visit him.

A mass was gathering in his throat, all the emotion that he hadn’t yet expressed for the little boy who had been his friend.His only friend.Ambrose pulled the screen door open harshly, and it banged against the side of the house with a loud clatter. He pushed at it again when it bounced back toward him, and he entered the house for the final time.

She was there, sitting at that old table again, a cup of coffee in front of her, her finger trailing over that deep, deep scratch. He vacantly wondered what had made that deep scratch, something sharp and heavy that had dug into the soft wood and left a gaping scar. His grandmother seemed obsessed with it but had paid no mind to the wide-open wounds in the people around her. Or even her own. But he’d been small like Milo too. Completely defenseless.

And suddenly, rage like a tidal wave overtook him, and he grabbed on to the doorframe to keep himself from flying at her, from taking her scrawny neck between his palms and squeezing. A moan escaped his lips, fingers tightening on the jamb.I’m not like him. I’m not like him.No, he wasn’t like his grandfather, not in any way. And he never would be. “You never did a goddamn thing to help me, you worthless piece of shit,” he spat out, his words laced with all the anger and grief and hopelessness he’d carried inside him since he was a tiny boy. “You could have called someone. You could have taken me and left.”

“You’re right,” she whispered. Her voice sounded like unused sandpaper, both abrasive and thin. But her eyes remained glued to the table as she began murmuring under her breath. Prayers. She was whispering prayers.

And he remembered then. “You used to sit outside the door to the shed and say prayers,” he said, tears gathering in his eyes. “I heard you. Sometimes I even called to you. But you never came in and rescued me.” She’d prayed outside a door when she possessed the key. Andmaybe Ambrose didn’t need to know more than that to understand the woman sitting in front of him.

But it still hurt. The pain inside was agony. It was the pain of the little boy he’d once been, but that little boy was part of Ambrose. And so Ambrose suffered too. He felt small again—unlovable—even though he recognized that his grandmother was only the cracked shell of a woman.

His grandmother began rocking in her seat. Back, forth, back, forth. The last of Ambrose’s anger drained, but so did the grief, leaving him with an empty feeling of sadness. But he knew now that he could fill that space with things of his choosing. Not alcohol or drugs, or other types of poison. So, no, this was a sadness that served. A sadness worth holding on to. For now, anyway.

Yes, his grandmother was a husk. He watched her there, rocking herself to and fro, gaze zoned out. Her mother or father had done something terrible to her, and then she’d found a husband who was familiar. She’d checked out long ago. She was an old woman now, and he could only feel sorry for her. There was no Dr. Sweeton to help. But she had this farm, and her abuser was gone. Maybe she could at least let some of the fear go.

“Goodbye, Grandma. I won’t be back.” And then he turned and walked out of the house he’d never been welcome in, for the final time.

He vowed that the cycle stopped with him. He was going to do his best to heal and to do some good with his life. Because he owed that much to Dr. Sweeton, and he owed that much to Milo Taft too. Because Ambrose had run when he could have ... what? Attacked? Yelled?Tried harder.Even if Milo had already been dead, it might not have killed the final piece of Ambrose’s soul if he hadtried harderin some way. Even now, he didn’t know what that was. But how could he forgive himself when Milo was dead and he’d stuffed the memory of his murder so far down in his subconscious that his family had suffered for so many years?

And maybe if he had figured out a way to fight for Milo, his grandfather would have killed him too. But he would never know, because he hadn’t ... and he’d have to live with that now and forever. But livingwith it was better than trying to stuff it away and cover it up with drugs, frankly, as unexpectedly true as that was. And so he’d live a doubly good life—making up for the void of Milo Taft.

Ambrose walked back along the road, opening his phone and calling for a cab once he’d made it to the leaning mailbox that spelled out his family name.

There would be no more DeMarces—they would die out with him, and that seemed right and the greatest justice he could bring down upon a twisted bloodline. He would never have children, ones that might very well look like his grandfather. What a thing to live with. He couldn’t begin to imagine how awful that would be. The small face of his grandfather staring at him for the rest of his days. And perhaps that was irrational—hell, on some level, he knew it was—but it still felt right. Forget the genetics: What kind of father would he be, anyway? The only male figure in his life had savagely abused and tortured him. He wouldn’t have any idea what to do with a tender child. He refused to put another ruined person into this already broken world.

Ambrose put his hands in his pockets and waited for his ride. He’d come full circle. This was the beginning of his story, and in a way, it was its end, even though he intended to go on to live a full life. He’d been destroyed here, and he’d come back to stand before it and claim victory. But it wasn’t a singular moment of victory. It was a victory that had to be earned, a day at a time. And he intended to do just that.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The call came in bright and early. But this time, Lennon was already home from her run, had showered, and was drinking a cup of coffee as she stared at the wall, trying to sort through all her mixed and confused emotions from the last few days. She’d tumbled into bed the night before and, miraculously, fallen into a heavy sleep. The run had helped clear her mind enough that she felt she had the wherewithal to deal with the information Ambrose had given her, and the choice that lay in front of her.

But apparently, that choice would have to wait, as another “BB” multiple homicide had occurred the night before and was similar to the last—the items used to murder each other were all accounted for at the scene. But ... there was a survivor.

Lieutenant Byrd called to let her know, and when he did, she didn’t ask—shetoldhim she was heading to the hospital to find out the victim’s status, and attempt to interview her if possible. “I don’t need my gun for that,” she’d said. “And if they ask for my badge, I’ll tell them I left it at home and to call you.”

Lieutenant Byrd had paused, as if considering denying her. But in the end, he’d simply said, “Don’t push it, Lennon. They moved her from the ICU to the psych ward, because physically she’s fine. It’s her mental condition that they’re worried about. If her doctor says she’sunfit to be interviewed, listen. And you’re still not allowed to come in to the station until Friday.”

“Fine. And I won’t push it, I promise.” She’d accused Ambrose of enjoying bending the rules the night before. But the truth was, she’d done plenty of rule bending herself, and perhaps she needed to check herself before casting judgment on anyone else.

It took her fifty minutes in rush hour traffic to make it to Zuckerberg San Francisco General, where she parked and took the elevator to the psychiatric ward. She’d been there many times over the years, and it seemed to get more and more overcrowded. There were patients in the hallways, most of them vacant eyed and drooling, but others crying or even wailing. She walked by a young man sitting on a bench, knees drawn up as he visibly shook, face contorted in pain. Her footsteps slowed, her instinct to stop and help. To ask him what was wrong and what she could do. But, of course, there was nothing she could do. He was where he needed to be, in a treatment facility. So why didn’t it feel that way? And if he was in the right place, then why was he sitting alone, obviously still suffering? It felt like walking into an emergency room and seeing a man on the lobby floor dying of a heart attack.

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.

She couldn’t bear to hear Ambrose’s voice in her head right now, though. She couldn’t. And so she shut him out, forcing a polite smile to her face as she stopped at the nurses’ station, introduced herself, and asked to see the doctor of the woman who had recently been brought in by the SFPD.

She stood in the waiting room, growing more and more agitated by the sounds of screaming and crying and random crashes from patient rooms. It smelled like the smell of the streets, only not as potent, the underlying stench covered by bleach and pine antiseptic. And something about that almost made it worse.Good God, this place made her feel like jumping out of her skin. This was no environment for someonewho was traumatized. It made her heart ache to think about being thrown in here during the darkest days when she’d been lost in grief. It was unthinkable.

She turned and gazed, unseeing, out the window, conjuring the picture of those first few days in the private hospital room after Tanner had died and she’d been pulled from that convenience store. Her mother had climbed into the hospital bed with her and refused to budge. And Lennon knew an entire army couldn’t have dragged that woman away from her side. She’d needed that strength. She’d needed someone to hold on to. She’d needed the warmth of love pressed directly against her.

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