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)
“You’re quite the local celebrity.” Cornwell holds up a physical newspaper.
I snatch it from him.
Assistant medical examiner believes she was a murder victim from over a century ago. Helps officials find victims’ bodies in Nashville.
“Is it true?” Cornwell asks.
“Which part?” I hand the newspaper back to him without reading past the headline.
“Any of it? All of it?”
I glance around the room, all eyes on me. “Listen, I’m just going to tell you what I’ve told everyone else. I had a near-death experience after the shooting. Since then, I’ve had visions and dreams about Winston Jeffries’s victims. Everyone in the room knows me well enough to know that I don’t believe in this kind of lunacy. Yet, here I am, experiencing it firsthand. I have no explanation.”
That’s not totally true anymore, but it was for a while, so it’s all they’re getting. I have no plans of telling the police that I was wrong about my role.
“And why am I with you today?” I shoot Cornwell a look.
“My, my … aren’t you a little chippy today. Anyone else would find it an honor to be with me for the day.”
“I feel like you don’t trust me. Like you’re demoting me.”
“I’m observing you for one day. Just one short day, Dr. Watts. It’s the responsible thing to do. I need to make sure you’re physically and emotionally up to the task.”
“You’re just observing?”
He nods, holding up his hands. “I won’t touch a thing.”
I take a seat at the table and remain obediently quiet while Dr. Cornwell goes over the cases for the day.
When I get to the autopsy suite, Alicia has my first case on the table waiting for me. “Josie, good to see you back.”
“Thanks.”
Alicia eyes Dr. Cornwell. I ignore every ounce of skepticism in the room, which is hard to do because it’s thick today.
Will I stumble?
Hesitate?
Miss something?
Mess something up?
Will Dr. Cornwell have to jump in and save the day? Save my ass?
Not a chance.
My brain is good at multitasking. It can be fucked ten ways to Sunday from the near-death experience yet not miss a step or a shred of evidence over the next two hours. I don’t give Dr. Cornwell a single glance nor do I acknowledge the other critics who should be focused on their own cases.
“Next,” I say, leaving Alicia to close up while I take a restroom break, strutting out of the autopsy suite with confidence. I rip off my PPE and speed walk down one long hallway and then another, finding refuge on the other side of a vending machine.
On a gasp, I hunch over, resting my hands on my thighs.
Breathe … breathe … breathe …
I’m a killer. I don’t deserve the trust of these victim’s families or Dr. Cornwell or all of Cook County. I am a fraud. An imposter. And I can’t fucking find a breath.
A hand touches my shoulder, making me jump. The second my gaze lifts, I see him.
Colten.
He says nothing. Nothing is exactly what I need because I can’t breathe or talk. I’m scared that I might start crying if I’m forced to do either.
I need a minute. A minute of silence.
I slowly stand up, and he pulls me to him, my face against his chest while his hand cups the back of my head.
Weeks of breaking into my house.
Weeks of leaving me notes.
Weeks of silence from me.
And he says nothing.
God … I love this man.
When I feel a vibration, I step back. Colten pulls his phone from the inside pocket of his jacket and answers it. “Mosley.”
My gaze affixes to his chest because now things feel awkward. The silence no longer fits. I glance at my hand while he takes it in his.
When I look up at him with his phone to his ear, he gives me a tiny smile that says all that it’s always said.
I’ve got you. You’re not alone. This will pass.
He squeezes my hand before releasing it, turning, and pushing through the door to the stairway. I get my butt into the locker room, use the toilet, and gown-up for my next case.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“This is unprofessional,” Dr. Byrd says, taking a seat across from me at a Mediterranean restaurant a few blocks from his office. “You’re my patient.”
“I’m not, Terrance.” I take a sip of water. “I’m just an old friend buying you dinner.”
“I’m married.” He gives me a lifted eyebrow while placing his napkin on his lap.
“Good thing I’m okay with buying you dinner without the promise of sex.”
“I’m ordering the most expensive thing on the menu and dessert. Maybe even a few drinks. You’ll also pay for my cab home, correct?” He gives me a challenging expression. “I feel like this ‘friends having dinner’ is just your way of not paying for my services.”
“Or … I want to talk to you in an environment where you can leave your professionalism at the door and be completely honest with me.” I draw lines in the condensation on my water glass.