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)
She set the telescope on the wide deck railing and then leaned forward, squinting through the lens. “I don’t see a comet, but the stars look pretty fantastic through this,” she murmured. “Check it out.”
Ambrose did, squinting like she’d done and gazing through the eyepiece. The sky opened up in front of him, the stars glittery and plentiful, and for a brief moment, he felt like he was floating among them. “Wow,” he said, turning his head slightly to look at her. She was so close, and again, their eyes held. It was slightly awkward, but he also didn’t want it to end.
“You do smell good,” she said, giving him a teasing smile.
He laughed, and they both stood straight. Ambrose tipped his head and looked up at the stars he’d just been up close and personal with, thinking how much wonder there was in the world. How much beauty and how much cruelty.
When he looked over at Lennon, she was gazing up at the night sky too. “I can’t see the stars very well from my apartment,” she said. “But I have a pretty decent view of the city. Sometimes I sit out there and think about how beautiful it looks from far away, all sparkly and still. And then I remember what’s actually happening in those little pockets of darkness.”
Little pockets of darkness. She looked at him, and he nodded. She was right, and he’d been thinking about that darkness too. But he’d also been thinking about the pockets of hope, and tonight was one. It had been such a simple, beautiful night surrounded by the chatter and laughter of a close-knit family. He’d had so few of those, and though it wasn’t his to keep, he knew he’d hold the memory close forever, the same way he did that cold January morning in a country where he’d gone to hunt down a predator.
Later, after he’d said goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Gray and Peter, Lennon drove him to the hotel where he’d told her he was staying and pulled up in front. “Thanks for tonight,” he said.
She smiled. “My family, they’re a special case.”
“They are. In a good way. I . . . had a really good time. Surprisingly.”
She tilted her head. “You didn’t expect to have a good time?”
“Not that good a time.”
She laughed softly. “Okay. Well then, my utter humiliation was worth it.”
He glanced out the window, up at the building next to them, and then back at her. “You’re lucky.” He wondered if she knew just how fortunate she was and thought she probably did. They were characters, but the love in that room was so bright, it’d practically blinded him.
“They’re good for some comic relief anyway. Kind of a little break from murder and mayhem.”
“A break is good. It keeps you sane.”
“It does.”
He paused, and there was a short moment of awkwardness before he said goodbye one last time and got out of her car. He watched as she waved and drove away, waiting until her car disappeared out of sight. And then Ambrose turned away from the hotel that he’d lied to Lennon about staying at and began walking in the opposite direction.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Seventeen Years Ago
Patient Number 0022
“Hi, I’m Dr. Sweeton. Please, have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Vodka,” Jett murmured.
Dr. Sweeton smiled. “I’m afraid the strongest I have to offer is diet soda.”
Jett let out a short snort. “Water then.” He ran his hands over his thighs toward his knees, and then reversed course. The jean fabric felt rough on his palms. Painful. The doctor took a bottle of water from a minifridge near the window and brought it back to Jett. He wasn’t thirsty, but it gave him something to do with his hands. Or maybe he was thirsty. Sometimes it was hard to tell. Sometimes all his physical needs ran together, creating a vast open hole of what he could only call hunger that he had no idea how to feed. But sometimes that same feeling came when he’d eaten and had water and was warm enough and gotten at least a few hours of sleep and even had some dope, and so he wondered if the need was something other than physical. Didn’t matter. He could barely fulfill the demands of his body, much less needs far more vague.
Jett unscrewed the cap and took a long drink. The doctor observed him, but not in the way most doctors did—lips thinned, impatient expression, gaze constantly darting to the clock on the wall. The ones Jett had seen were used to dealing with junkies. Dr. Sweeton opened his chart and glanced over it. “You’re on quite a few prescription medications,” he noted. He closed the folder and set it aside. “But you’re self-medicating, too, yes?”
Jett hesitated, but there was no disapproving tone in the doctor’s voice. And Jett knew it was obvious he was a user anyway, so who cared? “Yeah.”