Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
God, his mind was everywhere, panic taking over. He wiped the sweat off his forehead. His heart was still beating far too fast, the shock and grief of seeing the photo of Nancy along with what he’d discovered about Franco causing his body to flood with stress hormones.
“Sir, can I take your coat?”
“What? Oh. Yes, thank you.” He shrugged off his jacket. The young woman standing in front of a rack of coats took it from him, and he turned away. A DJ was setting up off to the side, and a small stage had been erected at the head of the dozen or so tables, all set for dinner. There were placards in the middle obviously designating which groups were sitting where. One read THE GILBERT HOUSE; another one said OCEANCREST SOBER LIVING. Each place setting had a colorful ribbon tied around the silverware and a plastic-wrapped mint placed just beneath. And in front of each plate was a printed quote. The doctor was too distracted to focus on the one nearest him, but assumed it was something inspirational. “Keep Going!” or “You got this!” It made him want to laugh, and cry. Ridiculous platitudes to people with severe mental illnesses, like the ones suffering lifelong trauma and addiction. And this was what he was going to leave these people with when he went to prison. Another drop of sweat slid down the doctor’s cheek, and he worked to calm his breathing.
What was done was done. He had to accept that now and try to stop it from going any further, if he possibly could.
And then he looked up and saw him. Franco Girone, standing on the balcony where a choir had likely once sung odes to a savior. Franco was surveying the space, a small satisfied smile on his lips, as though he were looking out over his kingdom and pleased with the results.
Dr. Sweeton wove through the people in front of him, knocking into someone but not stopping to apologize. He raced to the back of the church and up the narrow set of steps to the higher level. “Franco,” he said from the doorway, his chest rising and falling with his quickened breaths, more sweat dripping from his brow.
Franco swiveled toward him, an expression of surprise making him look suddenly younger, the boy Dr. Sweeton had once known, the one who’d discovered his mother’s battered corpse.
“The good doctor arrives,” Franco said. “Well, this is a plot twist. I certainly didn’t expect you to be here.”
Dr. Sweeton felt something deflate inside, what he’d feared most confirmed, even if he didn’t yet know the details. “It is you,” he said.
“What tipped you off?”
His shoulders dropped. Ambrose had come up with Franco Girone as a suspect, and Dr. Sweeton didn’t yet know how. All the doctor had were his memories of the boy and the photo that he’d found in his drawer—the photo that made him suspect the horrible possibility that it was the person he’d loved the most in the world who had betrayed him. “Nancy. I have a photo of you and Nancy from a Rays of Hope event,” he said.
The two of them had been standing together, heads bent toward one another as they spoke. It’d been obvious they knew each other. That event had taken place right before she died. He could tell because he recognized the pink-and-white-striped sweater she was wearing in the photo. It was the same one she’d worn to the treatment he’d administered that ended her life.
He clenched his eyes shut. He felt like he was in a nightmare and couldn’t wake up. He forced himself to look at Franco.
The man smiled. “Ah, Nancy. Strung-out Nancy. She really was a mess, wasn’t she?” He smiled again. “Franco,” he said, raising his voice an octave as if impersonating her, “You’re going to school to be a chemist, right? I’ll sell you a drug formula, and you can make it and get rich.” Franco laughed. “All those drugs of yours, seemingly right within her reach. She tried and failed to get a hold of your product, but she did manage to lift the recipe and then tried to sell it for some cash. When I didn’t bite, she tossed it at me anyway, off to concoct another scheme to buy herself a hit. Crackheads gonna crackhead, you know?”
Oh God, Nancy. This was too much. In the end, it was his daughter, the one who’d been his inspiration for the project, who’d sold him out. “Why did you do it?” He had to know. His work. His life’s work had been corrupted, and what Franco had used it for would be Dr. Sweeton’s legacy too. And Nancy’s, especially since she’d been the one who facilitated this by giving Franco the drug formula. That knowledge was a blade straight to his heart. He was still standing, but he was already dead.