CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Dr. Alexander Sweeton held the photograph in his hand, gazing down at his daughter, Nancy, and his first wife, Gwendolyn. They’d gone to Disneyland in Los Angeles and spent four days in the park, riding rides, eating snow cones, and buying overpriced mouse memorabilia.

It’d been wonderful.

And the last vacation he’d ever taken.

His first marriage had fallen apart after Nancy’s ... attack. They hadn’t survived the grief and the trauma and the guilt of what had happened to their only child. Gwen was remarried now and living close to Disney World in Florida. He wondered if she ever drove past it, or perhaps spent an afternoon there, and thought about those four dream-filled days in another life altogether.

He’d been alone for a long time after Nancy died and Gwen left. He’d devoted himself completely to the project. But then he’d met Brittany at a cocktail party. She was much younger than him, and they had little in common. But she’d made him laugh. She’d made him feel like a man again. She’d helped him remember the true value of a full life and why he’d made it his passion to help others live the one they’d been denied.

He deserved some happiness, too, didn’t he? And wouldn’t it make him not only a better person but a better doctor for his patients if he enjoyed a more well-rounded life? Those had all been justifications, though. He saw that now. His ego had gotten the best of him, and perhaps it was his fatal flaw.

Their marriage wasn’t working. They both knew it. What should have been a quick and pleasant affair had turned into a stale, resentment-filled union. Their relationship had been ill fated from the beginning, but he’d certainly sped their demise along by making her his last priority.

She’d been dressing differently for months now. Sexier. Wearing outfits similar to the ones she’d worn when they’d first started dating, before she’d become a doctor’s wife and seemed to change her style to fit the role. And he’d seen her entering a hotel near his office with a man he recognized as a high-priced tax attorney. He’d waited for the anger to come, or even the disappointment. But the only emotion that had washed over him as he’d sat in traffic watching them laughing and disappearing through the front doors was relief. He was responsible for the affair she was obviously having. He’d been absent and distracted, and he’d married her for all the wrong reasons, convincing himself the bounce in his step from her affection was love.

He’d insisted on a prenuptial agreement, perhaps because, deep inside, he was aware that their relationship was unlikely to last, but mostly to protect the money he’d stowed away from his highly lucrative practice and many speaking engagements that he used to fund Project Bluebird. The project he’d dedicated his life to was very expensive. There was equipment, and testing, and lab fees, and aftercare. He had employees to train, and a hundred other expenses, big and small. It was because he’d protected his wealth that the project continued and grew. He could not gamble with it, lest he gamble with Nancy’s legacy.

And now he knew that despite Brittany leaving their marriage with no more than she’d arrived with, she’d be just fine.

With a sigh, he set the photograph of Nancy and his first wife back on the bookshelf behind him, facing away from it. He set his elbows on his desk and rested his forehead on the heels of his hands. He’d tried so hard to redeem himself, to leave a legacy that Nancy would be proud of, to make amends for his mistakes with his daughter by helping others who were suffering the same way she had. And he had helped. He had. So many saved souls. He was proud of that. He’d sacrificed for it. But then things had gone so horribly wrong, and he couldn’t figure out how . Or why.

He’d gone to see the woman in the psychiatric ward who had survived the most recent attempted murder—after all, that’s what it was, only not just an attempted murder of the body but of the mind and soul—and it’d almost brought him to his knees. Broken him. Not only had she been dropped into the epicenter of her trauma, but she seemed to be stuck there. Death would have been kinder than that. And so the best the hospital could do was keep her unconscious. The fact that the altered drug had been formulated so that even when the narcotic wore off, the result did not, was a horror he hadn’t expected. He’d been working around the clock to create an antidote based on the pill Ambrose had provided him. But so far, the antidote was weak and would likely only work on those who’d absorbed a small amount of the toxin. Not doses like the one taken by the woman in the hospital, who had already dropped in a black hole in her own mind and was too far gone. And he couldn’t administer the pill that had been formulated to induce violence just so he could test his antidote. If he did that, he’d turn into the man who’d twisted his project.

Maybe he was no better. He’d thought he was. But because of him, this was happening. The work of his heart had been corrupted. Perhaps everything good eventually was.

Or perhaps if it could be corrupted, it wasn’t good at all. He’d convinced himself it was good because he needed it to be. Back to his own ego, once again.

God, he was so tired. He’d come home early to sleep for a few hours. He’d been up for days, and his faculties were failing him. A few hours’ rest and he’d feel better, and then he’d persevere.

He began to rise from his desk, picking up his silenced phone and noticing that he’d missed a text from Ambrose, and a call as well. He read the text asking about a Franco Girone.

Franco Girone.

Where did he know that name from? Another text came through from Ambrose.

On the way over.

And there was a link below the message that brought up a photo. He stared, his skin suddenly prickling, mind buzzing. The man in the photo, whom he now recognized as Franco, had been a little older than in this image the last time he’d seen him in person ... and Franco hadn’t been smiling then, like he was in the photo. It all drifted to him in foggy snippets of memory. Franco’s mother, the woman who’d run Rays of Hope in the Tenderloin, had just been killed. He’d met the man—how old had Franco been then? Twenty or twenty-one?—at an event, and then later at the free clinic. He’d been deeply traumatized by his mother’s murder. Dr. Sweeton had tested him for Project Bluebird but ultimately decided he wasn’t a good candidate. The man had exhibited traits that weren’t conducive to a successful regression therapy. His psychopathy had been questionable, but the doctor hadn’t been able to tell if that was related to his current trauma or something else underlying that was already present.

He slowly lowered his phone as he thought back to the event from the photo. It’d been so long ago, but he wondered ... Dr. Sweeton stood, going over to his file cabinet and opening the bottom drawer, where he stored flyers and pictures from talks he’d given, and sometimes personal photos he was forwarded from events. Items he didn’t necessarily need, but ones he didn’t feel right throwing away either. He’d been tossing things here for years.

He picked up the box, carried it to his desk, and dumped it out. It only took a few minutes of sifting before he found what he was looking for. He had a hard copy of the photo that Ambrose had sent him a link to. The man who had organized the Rays of Hope event had put them in the thank-you card he’d sent later.

Dr. Sweeton tossed the card aside and went through the handful of photos, the last one in the stack nearly stealing his breath. The word he whispered as he dropped the pictures scratched over the tender skin of his throat.

Oh God. He was going to be sick. He rushed to the bathroom in his office and barely made it before he lost his lunch. Or breakfast, or whatever last meal he’d eaten. He couldn’t remember.

He felt hot and cold, faint. Panicked. Horrified. No, it can’t be. You’re wrong. Dr. Sweeton fell back on the tile floor, slumped against the wall, and cried. What the hell is happening? This can’t be true. You’re just tired.

His mind was so foggy, so saturated with shock. His world was crumbling around him.

He pulled himself slowly to his feet, flushed the toilet, and then used his cupped hand to rinse his mouth before leaving the bathroom.

He stood near his desk for several moments, doing a few deep-breathing exercises before using the search engine on his phone to look up the number for Rays of Hope. He dialed, and a young man answered.

“Yes, hello. My name is Dr. Alexander Sweeton, and I’m trying to get in contact with Franco Girone. His mother was—”

“Zeta Girone.” He heard the smile in the man’s voice. “Yes, Franco is here a few times a week, but tonight he’s at the award dinner.”

“Award dinner.”

“Yes, you just caught me, actually. We’re all heading there in a minute. Franco is accepting one in his mother’s honor.”

“For Rays of Hope? Posthumously?”

“Yes. She was an amazing advocate for those experiencing drug addiction and homelessness in the Tenderloin. It was tragic, what happened to her.”

“Yes. It was. Where is this award dinner being given?”

“Oh. At Mercy Cathedral. Do you—”

Dr. Sweeton hung up. Mercy Cathedral was less than ten minutes away. He had to speak with Franco Girone. He had to be certain he was the one. He had to stop what he himself had unknowingly started.

The doctor left his office, pausing in the hall before turning back and going to the cabinet near the door, where he had a small bar with a minifridge. He grabbed the blue nylon cooler, hooked the strap over his shoulder, and then rushed out of his house, not bothering to set the alarm.