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)
“Ambrose,” Dr. Sweeton said, leaning back on the desk and crossing his arms. “I have something else to talk to you about. We looked into the little boy you described and found that a child by the name of Milo Taft went missing almost fourteen years ago, when he was nine years old.”
Ambrose’s heart lurched, and he sucked in a gulp of air. From the time he himself had been an eight-year-old child, he’d shut the memory from his mind as best as he could, made himself believe that the boy named Milo who had come to play with him was a figment of his imagination. But inside, he’d always known; he’d stored the traumatic memory, wrapped in all the traumatic memories from his childhood. Trauma encasing deeper trauma, combined with guilt and horror and fear. And hatred. Such all-encompassing hatred that had nowhere to go because he was too small to do a damn thing about it. And so he’d turned it on himself.
And the truth was that he deserved some of it because he’d kept quiet. He’d kept his grandfather’s secrets, not only the ones that affected him but the ones that had . . . hidden the abuse and killed Milo Taft too. “I have to tell the authorities,” Ambrose said.
“Yes,” Dr. Sweeton agreed. “You have to tell the authorities what you witnessed. I know your grandfather is dead now, but Milo’s body is likely buried somewhere on that farm where your grandmother still lives.”
Ambrose nodded. He still felt the echoes of fear when he thought of that farm . . . that shed. But the fear didn’t flip a switch in him anymore and send him reeling into some unknown territory where he either wanted to tear down the world or curl up into a ball and disappear. Territory that had him desperately seeking substances to help regulate his damaged nervous system. Of course, he knew this now, but he hadn’t before. And even if he had, it wouldn’t have done him any good without a way to begin to fix it. Dr. Sweeton had saved his life, and likely his soul. “I already bought a bus ticket,” he told the doctor. “In this case, I’m one step ahead of you.”
Dr. Sweeton smiled and gripped Ambrose’s shoulder. “Are you ready? This is a journey you have to take alone.”
“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 a pivotal 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.”