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)
“The only thing I can figure is that it’s a member. Or a member who talked to someone who didn’t agree with the project.”
“That’s never happened in almost twenty years. You know how we all feel about the project. Who would risk it?”
“People are people, Finch. They mess up. They trust the wrong person.”
Finch still looked unconvinced, though, and still deeply troubled. “They’d have told us,” he said. “They’d have let us know they made a mistake so we’d be prepared.”
“Maybe they don’t even know.”
“We all know at this point. We all know there’s a situation.”
“I don’t know what to say. I can only tell you what I know so far. Doc is formulating an antidote to the drug. Apparently there’s a compound that blocks receptors involved in the uptake of hallucinogens. The science is all way over my head. Doc thinks he’s close but needs time.”
“What good will an antidote do if we don’t know who to give it to until after the fact?” After the fact, of course, meaning they were dead and wearing a gruesome scream.
“That’s the other problem.” Ambrose reached for the folder of photos that had been included in the case files. “I need you to take these to Doc and see if he recognizes them. Some of those photos are pretty hard to look at.”
Finch took the folder but didn’t open it. “I’ll take them to Doc tomorrow.” He blew out a breath. “Anything else?”
“The man they identified told someone he’d found a miracle treatment for his drug addiction.”
“That could mean anything. Man, some people refer to methadone that way.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Finch moved his tongue over his teeth for a moment. “Do the police have any theories?”
Ambrose took another sip of the water, capped it, and set it down. “Lennon . . . Inspector Gray theorized about a role-play at the most recent crime scene.”
“A role-play is pretty on target with regression therapy.”
“Yeah,” he said. “She sees a lot. She was leery of me at first, but she wasn’t sure why.”
“And now?”
“Now she trusts me more.” And that made him happy, but it also brought him more than a twinge of guilt. Because her instincts were right, and he’d slipped past her defenses anyway.
Finch narrowed his eyes, one side of his lips curling as he watched Ambrose. “Oh damn. You like her.” He laughed. “Well, shit. This complicates an already complicated matter, doesn’t it?”
“Finch . . .”
“You can’t BS a BSer, man. Didn’t I teach you that?” He grinned, and Ambrose paused but then laughed, tipping his chin as he conceded the point. He never had been able to lie to Finch, and more than that, he didn’t want to. Finch was his hero, his mentor, and the best example of an honorable man that he’d ever known. He’d wanted to be seen by him when he was young, and he wanted to be seen by him now.
He leaned back and blew out a breath. “It’s the damnedest thing. I get lost in her,” he admitted. “For someone like me . . . you know. She makes me forget.” And last night had been like nothing he’d experienced before. Even after she’d fallen asleep, he’d lain there with her in his arms for hours, just living completely in the moment. He was so damn happy, he wanted to sing. Or dance or do something so completely out of character that only that would convey the way he felt changed by her touch. Her taste. Being connected to her so intimately. Just her.
And yet he couldn’t. He couldn’t act on his happiness, his desire to see her, to touch her again, to get lost in her in ways he’d only scratched the surface of—or so he imagined.
Finch watched him for a moment as his thoughts flitted through his mind. “Does she make you forget?” he asked. “Or does she make it not matter?”
Leave it to Finch to strike right at the heart of it. It was a good question, and Ambrose took a moment to ponder it, a well of hope widening as he did so. He’d never thought it possible that his past wouldn’t matter—and he didn’t necessarily mean as far as others. He had people in his life who accepted him for who he was and what he’d done. Hell, he had a whole community of those people on speed dial if he needed them. What shocked the hell out of him was spending time—any amount of time—with a woman who made him believe, even for minutes at a time, that who he’d been just didn’t matter. And for those small gaps of time, he felt the melting of all his past selves into one solid person, and he was only the Ambrose of present, the one he’d fought so hard to become. But thinking about it now? It awed him and humbled him and made him wish for things he’d sworn off long ago.