Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
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.”
“You’re afraid you’re going to hurt someone or yourself?”
I nod.
“Which one?”
“Both,” I whisper as our food arrives.
After we eat for a few minutes without speaking, Terrance glances up at me, wiping his mouth. “How are you and Colten?”
“Over.”
“Why?”
I give him a look. He can’t be that stupid.
“Did he end it, or did you?”
“I ended it.”
“Why?”
“Terry, you can’t really be asking me this.”
“I am. You’ve always talked fondly of Colten. The love of your life. Your best friend since the fourth grade. I wouldn’t normally advocate anyone using another person to give them purpose or reason for their existence. But in your case, I’m inclined to make an exception. Maybe instead of distancing yourself, you should…” he twists his lips “…lean in a bit.”
“Lean in a bit?” I narrow my eyes. “That’s your brilliant, a-decade-of-medical-school advice to me. Lean in?”
He offers a half shrug before taking a bite of his food. “Let him help you through this. You trust him. He might be the perfect person to get you through the rough patch.”
“The rough patch? You are definitely not getting dessert out of this. I think about dead girls all day and all night. It’s not a rough patch. It’s unimaginable mental anguish.”
“Maybe consider changing your profession or taking more time off. Give yourself more opportunities to not see or think about the deceased. Memories, real or not, are imperfect. They fade whether we want them to or not. Time is your friend.”