Page 125 of Broken Dream

“I’m sure I’d love it, but?—”

I cut her off with another kiss.

This woman. This beautiful, smart, young woman.

I let go of her, and she’s about to speak again when I place a finger over her lips.

“Just…think about it. I’m going to leave in a week. I’d love to have you come with me.”

And I turn, run back to my place, and get into my car.

I keep my passport in my desk at work. Seemed to be the smart thing to do in case I ever lost my driver’s license while on the job. At least I’d have another form of ID.

Christ, I hope it hasn’t expired…

No, it shouldn’t be. I renewed it right before my last trip overseas, when Lindsay was pregnant. That was a little over six years ago. Passports are good for ten years, right?

God, I hope I’m right.

I drive over to the school, ignoring the speed limit the whole way, and park in the fire lane. I’m only going to be here a few minutes.

I rush into my office. I reach for my keys when I realize the door is unlocked.

Shit. Did I forget to lock this? There are sensitive documents in here.

Won’t happen again. I’ll make sure the door is locked securely when I leave for Switzerland.

I open the door, and my heart races.

My office looks like a storm went through it. Papers are scattered across my desk’s surface and onto the floor, some crumpled. My computer monitor is tilted, and drawers hang open, their contents dumped out. On the bookshelves, textbooks and journals have been pulled out and tossed aside. The locks on my filing cabinet have been forced open. I look inside to see that several file folders are ripped.

Someone in here was looking for something, and they were doing it quickly.

What the hell could I possibly be keeping in here that would be worth ransacking my office so crudely?

I close the door behind me, locking it. I walk over to my desk, looking through the papers. It’s mostly copies of old syllabi, lecture notes, even some old patient-related files from when I was still a surgeon. I couldn’t bear to part with them when I stopped cutting. I needed some sort of connection to the past.

Speaking of connections to the past…

A single envelope, slightly wrinkled, is strewn to the side carelessly by whoever searched my office.

To Jason…

Christ. It’s the note that Lindsay left behind the day she killed herself.

I’ve never read it.

The day she died, I stuffed it in my pocket. I gave it to one of the cops who eventually came over. He gave it one look and then returned it to me. It was pretty easy to tell what had happened.

That night, I came into the hospital and placed this envelope at the bottom of my lowest desk drawer. Far away from my everyday files and documents, but a small lifeline to the woman who was once the love of my life if I ever needed it.

I don’t know why—I really should be focusing on more important things right now—but I pull the note out of the envelope. Maybe now that I’m about to get some of my life back, I can handle the letter’s contents.

Then a knock on my door. “Dr. Lansing?”

“One second.” I look at the first words.

Jason, I’m sorry, but I can’t carry this weight any longer.