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)
But then he’d come up with an idea, and he’d known how he could make them suffer—and suffer in the most nightmarish way they could imagine. Because after all, it was their nightmares he was after. And now he knew precisely how to make those come to life.
The sun was lowering, and soon the sickos would all crawl from their hidey-holes to suck and fuck and terrorize the community. But not all of them, not for long. He was taking care of that. One by two, by three and four.
He kicked aside a pile of needles and watched them fly, whistling as he passed the last grungy tent on the block and turned the corner.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ambrose took a deep breath as he watched Lennon twist the knob and open the door of her family home. “Mom?” she called. “Your door is unlocked again.” Her expression was perturbed as they both entered the foyer, and she began taking off her jacket. Ambrose followed her lead, hanging his coat beside hers on the coatrack just inside the door. It’d stopped raining as they drove here, and the heat in Lennon’s car had ensured they were dry enough that they weren’t dripping all over the floor. “Mom?” she called again, shutting the door and engaging the lock.
As with many homes in San Francisco, they had climbed a high set of steps to make it from the street to the front door, and there was another set in front of them that led from the small foyer up into the house. He followed Lennon upstairs, and as they reached the upper landing, an older woman in an apron came bustling down the hall. “Hello, sweetheart. Oh, hello. Ambrose. A strong name, and now I see it’s for a strong man. Welcome to our home. Happy Thanksgiving!”
“Hello, Mrs. Gray. Thank you for having me.”
“Oh, we’re thrilled to have you! And please call me Natalie.”
“Happy Thanksgiving. Mom, your door was unlocked,” Lennon said. She still looked at least a little distressed, and Ambrose sensed whatever was going on with her insistence on locking the door might not be about a door at all.
“Oh, was it? Oh dear. Sorry, honey. I told your father to be more careful about that, but you know how he is. His mind is always on a hundred different things. Follow me. I have drinks waiting in here.”
“Mom, you’ve gotta remind him. This neighborhood is safe, but you never know.”
“You’re right, sweetheart, of course. Believe me, I can’t even watch the news anymore or I’ll be so worried about you.” They entered a large open kitchen with a deck off the back that overlooked a tiny fenced-in yard featuring rows of raised planting boxes. Lights glowed throughout the space, and even in the brief glance Ambrose gave it, he saw the myriad of pinwheels and tall in-ground bird feeders and other garden decor placed in the corners of the boxes.
The kitchen itself wasn’t fancy, but it was warm and inviting, with tall oak cabinetry and a stove that looked like it was original to the Victorian house. “But,” Mrs. Gray said, “it’s wonderful what you both do for a living. I feel better and worse about it, because so many out there need you, and there you are.” She brought her hands together. “Saint Ambrose, the Bishop of Milan. He donated all of his land and gave his money to the poor. And because of it, he was widely beloved and had more political power than the emperor,” she stated.
“You looked up my name?” Ambrose asked, feeling charmed by the gesture—and the fact that she must have done it in the last twenty minutes, since Lennon called from the car and told her she was bringing a coworker to dinner at the last minute.
“Please have a seat,” she said. “I did look up your name.”
“Mom, really, you’re something,” Lennon said. Her cheeks had taken on a slight tinge of pink, but her eyes were warm, and she seemed more relaxed than he’d seen her thus far. Though that might not be surprising considering he’d mostly seen her standing at murder scenes and in rooms of hardened cops. Softness, playfulness even . . . those traits seemed to come far easier to her than the stoic detachment she’d attempted—somewhat unconvincingly—amid crime and death. He had this feeling she considered it a weakness. But to Ambrose, it made her even more attractive than he’d found her to be before she’d even said a word.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” Lennon’s mother said. “Names are very important. They’re our first story.”
“Ah. See, Ambrose. You have something in common. Ambrose likes stories too.” Lennon smiled at him, and his stomach dipped, then rose. He felt slightly shy as he smiled back at her. Her head tipped minutely as her gaze hung on him, and then she looked away.