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)
I can smell it from over a century ago. And that is why … Josephine Watts has never consumed a drop of alcohol.
Puzzles start out slow, but as more pieces are found, it comes together faster and faster. This puzzle is coming together in bigger chunks. Not a piece at a time anymore. Ten pieces. Twenty pieces. And the picture it’s creating just keeps getting more unbearable.
Throwing off the covers, I find my feet under shaky legs. When my heart starts to slow, I can hear Reagan’s soft sobs. How does a five-year-old, who was once afraid of the boogieman, process someone leaping out of their sleep and screaming, “I KILLED HER!”
Dizzy with the faint residual echo of his voice in my head, I ease open the bedroom door and navigate the stairs by gripping the railing to steady my swaying gait.
I shove my feet into my sneakers at the entry and stumble into the cold December air, light flurries peppering the night skies, blurring my vision, and making me even more dizzy while my faltering steps take me toward the street.
“Josie!”
I walk down the middle of the street.
“JOSIE!”
I mentally go through my own autopsy. Blunt force trauma.
When people get hit by cars, it shatters their skeletons and their organs rupture. It can be unsightly. And it’s usually not autopsied. But sometimes bodies are found after a hit and run, and we have to determine if a vehicle ran over a dead body or if it was the cause of death.
“STOP!” Colten wraps his arms around my whole body, like he could tackle me to the ground, only we don’t fall. He drags me to the sidewalk as a horn screeches in our ears and taillights beam bright red in the distance a few seconds later.
He scoops me up in his arms like a child and carries me to the house.
“You have to stop saving me,” I whisper.
When he gets me back into bed, Reagan comes into the room and crawls in next to me under the covers. “I have bad dreams too,” she whispers. “Daddy will keep you safe. He keeps me safe.”
Colten shuts off the light and slides in next to me so that I’m sandwiched between them. His arms snake around my waist, and his lips press to my ear while he whispers, “I’ll stop saving you when you stop trying to die. But I’ll never stop loving you, needing you, so tough luck, Mr. Duck.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“This isn’t your regular time,” Dr. Byrd says, when I have a seat by the window, this time opting for the rocking chair. He has a solid mix of seating choices.
“I lost my job, so my schedule suddenly opened up. And since I’ve been entertaining the idea of suicide, I thought a quick check-in might be a good idea. You know … before I check out.”
He eyes me without sharing my jovial sense of humor, probably because it’s hard to figure out where the humor lies in my current situation.
“How often are you having these thoughts?”
“Daily.”
“These thoughts … how intense are they … on a scale of one to ten?”
“Eight. Nine must be actively acquiring a weapon, drugs, rope, or unfastening my seat belt while approaching a tree at ninety miles per hour. Correct? And ten means dead or a failed attempt? Eight. I’m going with eight.”
“How serious are you about following through?”
“Is this a checklist of questions you learned in school? It is. Isn’t it? Next are you going to ask me if I’ve given any thought as to how I would do it?”
“Have you?”
“I’m a medical examiner. I know all the ways to die. It doesn’t require much thought.”
He nods. He’s having self-doubt. No amount of training can prepare one to talk another human down from the ledge.
“Maybe we can talk about my job.”
Dr. Byrd nods again. “What happened?”
“I was fired.”
He frowns.
“Well, that’s not fair. I wasn’t outright fired. It was more of an ultimatum. Get a psychiatric evaluation. Get help. Or clean out my desk. I cleaned out my desk.”
“Why?”
“Why are you asking questions you know the answers to? This isn’t PTSD. This isn’t going away. If I let you medicate me to the point that I no longer recall my past life, then I’ll be close to comatose and unable to do my job anyway.”
“Why did your superior give you the ultimatum? What tipped him off?”
“I’m a little slower than I used to be. Still capable. Still doing solid work. Just slower.”
And I told him I was a murderer.
“Why are you slower?”
“Do you have kids, Terry?”
“Two.”
I nod. “Imagine trying to do your job with your kids here. Chattering. Getting into trouble. Shaving each other’s heads. Threatening to kill someone. Just … stuff like that. Would you run behind? Would it take you longer to do your job?”
“Of course.”