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)
“Ouch!”
“ENOUGH! Sit. Down! Don’t move. I’m going to take care of this once and for all.”
“Don’t … p-please … what are you d-doing? I’m s-sorry … Please stop!”
“Dr. Watts? Josephine!”
I open my eyes.
Alicia offers me a sad smile. “Are you okay?”
I nod.
“Are you sure?”
Glancing around the autopsy suite, I search for anyone else eyeing me. “I’m sure.”
It takes me an hour longer than it should to complete the autopsy.
“Let’s talk,” Cornwell says, stepping into my office and shutting the door behind him.
I glance up for a quick second before finishing the last line on my report. “You’re coming to my office and shutting the door behind you. Should I be worried?”
He takes a seat in the chair opposite me, crossing his legs and folding his hands on his lap. “I’m not one to invoke unnecessary worry. However, I think a little worry might be appropriate. You’re not you. You’re doing an admirable job of pretending to be you. However, as admirable as it is, it’s painful for me to watch you struggle. It’s painful to see a feigned confidence instead of the real deal. When I’m in the same room as you, I swear I can feel your demons, but I can’t see them, and I don’t know what they’re saying.”
Leaning back in my chair, I study him for a few seconds. I’ve always thought I could confide in him. Not because I think he’s experienced what I’m experiencing, it’s because he’s seen so much in his life. He’s dissected the unimaginable. He’s given a voice to the dead. And right now, I feel like I am a voice of the dead.
“Do you want the whole story?”
Cornwell’s eyes narrow for a beat before he nods. While I proceed to tell him everything, he doesn’t move, aside from the occasional blink. Not a nod. Not a smile. Not a grimace. The words fly out of my mouth while I have the courage to say them. And when I finish, he still says nothing.
“Dr. Cornwell?”
This time when he blinks, his gaze falls to his lap. “Josie …”
He never calls me Josie. I don’t like the way he says it.
“I think you are talented beyond words. I’ve never worked with someone like you. But you know this.” He returns his attention to me, something quite grave in his eyes. “I feel honored that you trusted me enough to share this with me. However, as your superior, I must make decisions based on what’s right for the job in which you’ve been appointed to do. I’m going to recommend that you take a leave of absence, your return contingent on a psychiatric evaluation and completion of any recommended treatment.”
I’m … blindsided.
How did I get this wrong?
“I had an evaluation after the accident.”
“You need another one.”
“I’m seeing a psychiatrist.” My voice escalates.
“For an evaluation or to talk through your issues?”
“Talk through my issues. I already had—”
“So you’re admitting you have issues?”
“Goddammit, Cornwell!” I stand resting my fists on my desk. “I took off more time for my injury than you did for your double hernia repair. I’ve seen two psychiatrists. I’m back to work. Who gives a flying fuck if I’m a little slower? I’m just as sharp. I’m completing my tasks, writing up reports, testifying in court. I died! What the hell do you expect? I’m still better at my job than every other ME in this building … including you and your old ass. When you die and come back to life, then we’ll have this conversation. When you figure out the mysteries of the universe and become a foremost expert on near-death experiences, then we’ll have this conversation. But until then, I am not going to let you fucking fire me!”
He won’t even look at me. Instead, he presses his hands to the arms of the chair and stands. “Take the leave of absence and get your shit together or empty your desk. I’m sorry.” Turning, like the coward he is, he exits my office.
Out of all the nights I wish Reagan were with her mom, it’s this one. I’m not that lucky today.
Colten: Could you pick Reagan up on your way home?
He must not have checked my location because I’m already home. At my house.
I pedal faster on my stationary bike, staring at his message. I barely made it home without running my car into a tree; I don’t think transporting children is a good idea.
Avoiding the actual messenger app so he won’t know that I saw his message, I turn off my location. I need time to figure out what I’m doing and if it’s even worth doing … if anything in this life is still worth doing.
After cycling, I do Pilates. Drink a half gallon of water. Clean every inch of my house with music blaring. And finally take a shower.