Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 180510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 903(@200wpm)___ 722(@250wpm)___ 602(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 180510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 903(@200wpm)___ 722(@250wpm)___ 602(@300wpm)
“What makes you think I’ve been anything less than honest with you?”
“Because I can tell you’re out of your comfort zone with my issues. And when I tell you what I found out in California, you’re going to want to tell me I’m batshit crazy. I need your honest expertise. Nothing sugarcoated. Not like when I tell a family their loved one probably didn’t suffer, but I know that probability is slim at best.”
Terrance eyes me just before the waiter takes our order. As soon as it’s just us again, he blows out a long breath. “Tell me. And I’ll give you my honest opinion.”
I glance around the restaurant to see how close the nearest table and set of ears are to us. “I saw a psychic who knows a lot about near-death experiences.”
“You lost me at psychic. I’m already silently judging you.”
I chuckle. “I’m judging me too. And that’s not accurate. She’s a parapsychologist. Just hear me out. She said I wasn’t one of the victims.”
“Never mind. I like her after all.”
“Wow. You won’t let me finish. You must really have to force yourself to hold back your reaction when you’re on the clock.”
He smirks. “You have no idea.”
I give him the stink eye. “As I was saying … she pointed out all the reasons I wasn’t one of the girls he killed. And it made sense, well, most of it. Then she nudged me until my brain stretched just far enough to see what I had been missing.”
Terrance presses his lips together, biting his tongue, I’m sure.
“I was Winston Jeffries.”
He doesn’t let anything leak. No reaction whatsoever.
Running my hands through my hair, I frown. “I killed thirty-seven little girls in another life. I was a psychopath. And while I didn’t want to believe it; now, I see it’s the only thing that fits. God … it fits so many parts of my life before the shooting.”
He blinks once, maybe twice.
“You can speak now.”
Nodding slowly, he scratches his chin. “You’re batshit crazy.”
I nod several times. “I know. Except … I’m not. Not really. I know what I see. And I’ve sent other locations to the Nashville police, and they’ve found more bodies right where I told them they would be. One girl … one girl that he killed wouldn’t know all the locations of thirty-seven bodies. Did you not see today’s paper?”
“I don’t believe everything that gets printed.”
“Well, believe it. Open your mouth. Chew it up. Then swallow it. After you digest it, tell me what it means if it doesn’t mean that I was Winston Jeffries.”
Resting one arm and his opposing elbow on the table, he props his chin on his fist in a thinker’s pose. “Out-of-body or near-death experiences are not well studied for obvious reasons, but I’m sure you already know this. Death is not a specific moment, even if a qualified professional marks a time of death. It’s a potentially reversible process. Not everyone who goes into cardiac arrest dies. Again, you know this. So the question is, what happens in that small space of time when the heart, lungs, and brain cease to function? Understanding of the human brain is still in its infancy despite great strides over the years. I think there are some brilliant minds who are making good guesses at what these NDEs mean. I’m just not one of them. And I don’t know who your psychic friend is, but I’d be happy to refer you to a professor I know. He’s written a few papers on neurophenomenology of near-death experiences. I know he’s worked with other doctors using high-density ECG during an induced NDE-like state, but to my knowledge they’ve had little success. However, if I’m being completely honest, Josie, I’m inclined to ask what your endgame is with this? Let’s take liberty and just say you are right. You were Winston Jeffries. Now what? You can’t undo the past. You can’t be held accountable for something that happened over a century ago. You’re not a serial killer in this life. What is the endgame? Do you just need someone to say they believe you? If that’s the case, I’ll do that. I have no explanation for the bodies. The bodies sell it for me.”
“I don’t need to be believed. Or right. Or anything ego-driven. I need to forget it. All of it. It’s poison in my brain. Imagine waking up every day after a long night of seeing dead children in your dreams. Then imagine feeling responsible for their deaths. This is what I’m living with right now. And it’s not just when I sleep. Right now, I can see the graves. The dead girls. There’s not a pill strong enough to get rid of these visions. And it makes me question my entire existence. I don’t understand what my purpose is. And I’m so scared of some switch getting flipped and losing it. I don’t trust myself.”