New Novel from the publisher of the Wyoming Truth:  Whispered Word Explores the Dark Side of Wrongful Convictions and the Secrets That Bind Us – Chapter Two

Editor’s note: In a world where justice often feels elusive, Whispered Word, the latest novel by acclaimed author Alec Klein, offers a gripping exploration of wrongful convictions, lost hope and the powerful pursuit of redemption. At its heart, this fictional Christian thriller delves into the fragility of faith and the relentless search for truth in a world filled with lies.

The story follows Joe, a disillusioned investigative reporter drowning in personal demons—alcohol, prescription drugs and the weight of a past he can’t outrun. His bleak routine takes an unexpected turn when he begins to hear a mysterious voice, whispering three words: “Look. Go. Seek.” 

These whispers lead Joe to the case of Maggie, a woman serving time for child neglect—a crime she swears she didn’t commit. For years, Maggie has maintained her innocence, but no one has listened. Spurred on by the voice—and by a growing sense that something greater is at work—Joe sets out to uncover the truth. He journeys across the country, from New York to Oklahoma, a small Texas border town, and finally, the remote countryside of Mexico, where he begins to unravel a conspiracy larger than he could have ever imagined.

The following is an exclusive excerpt from the novel, set to be published on January 28, by Beaufort Books.

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I don’t remember how I got home but when I found my way there, the first thing I did was grope for the light switch by the front door, flip it on, and, blinking against the harsh glare, take stock of my surroundings. It didn’t look like a home. It looked like a box with four barren walls. In the antiseptic kitchenette, only fingerprints resided on the face of a small microwave, land of the turgid frozen dinner. A flimsy card table boasted a laptop in rest mode. Tucked under the table was a single foldup chair. I shrugged at myself. There were two ways of looking at the spartan studio apartment: Either I was a serial killer on sabbatical or an initiate to a monastic order disavowing worldly possessions. Never did care about stuff anyway.

I had always been what I was-what I did-until that went away.

There wasn’t much else, except for the futon, the site of my face-forward flop. The buzz had worn off somewhere between the intrusion of the garbage can and the unremembered bumbled maze home.

Without looking, I groped, swiping at the hardwood floor for a bottle-any bottle-until my hand bumped into one, tipping it over, and spilling a clattering of pills. I scooped up a bunch of the identical white orbs, like a dutch of peanuts, and stuffed them in my mouth, swallowing all at once. Water would have helped.

I turned over onto my back, propped myself up on my elbows, and spied a liquid alternative: a bottle of generic tequila. Even better.

Leaning over, I grabbed the neck of the half-empty bottle and took a long uninterrupted swig, the tequila burning my throat until it didn’t.

And waited.

Nothing.

Repeat, rinse: I grabbed another scoop of pills and swallowed. I took another swig of tequila and tilted my head, feeling the encroaching blanket of numbness overcoming consciousness.

A swoop. 

There was a slipping away, a fluttering causing my eyelids to slowly shut. Somehow, the back of my head floated backward, making contact with the cool surface of the futon, without any doing on my part. I wasn’t involved. I was separated from myself. What was happening felt like the inevitability of sleep but not.

More: It felt like gravitational forces were pushing down on me, driving my body into the futon, threatening to push me through, beneath it, downward, thrusting me into the abyss, down, down, down.

Grasping for something, anything, eyes nearly shut into spirals of fractional nothingness dotting the blankness of dinging.

My hand bumped into another bottle. More pills. Right. Accident was the mother of invention. Or was it necessity that led to innovation? Or a necessary accident? Even in my descent into the vortex, I began to realize what I was doing without actively meaning to do it. Unintentional intentionality. Just keep at it. Just take another pill. This was the easy way out. Required minimal effort. Pop and swallow. That’s it. I didn’t have the courage to do it any other way. There I was, editing myself with self-loathing in the final moments.

Hour number two since my unceremonious departure from the bar.

Down the gullet went another loose batch of chalky pills. Involuntarily, my eyeballs began to roll backward into my head. I couldn’t see anything. I couldn’t feel anything except a pit of nausea and a thin fllm of perspiration coating my aching forehead.

Maybe this was it.

Well, I had come this far. Might as well go the rest of the way. Just sort of evolved to this bereft point until there was nothing left but me, myself, and I. The lack of forethought gave me the excuse to forego the idea of a last note. Didn’t even know what I would have said, or who I would have said it to. Besides, I had always been paid to write, a mercenary of movable type. And this would’ve been-what?-pro bono on behalf of myself. Not my kind of unprofitable gig, and let’s not forget I had no idea whether a scrap of paper could be found, let alone a functional pen, within the barren landscape of my

five-hundred square-foot abode.

            Adios.

Cheerio.

Bugger off.

None quite captured the essence, the distillation of the defiant sentiment, the period at the end of the final uttered sentence.

Downy slumber seeped in.

Better to leave behind a patina of mystery for the three-no, the two—people who might actually care. Okay, maybe one. Not much of a gathering. What was I talking about? There would have been no such thing as a ceremony, or a remote facsimile. Wouldn’t even rise to the level of a news brief. I hadn’t warranted that. I hadn’t accomplished much, other than the Scarlet Letter of shame.

At least there was this: I didn’t need to put my affairs in order.

There was nothing to put into order. It was all gone. It was almost frightening, the efficiency with which I would be wiped from existence, the apartment that wasn’t mine, the stuff within it that would be disposed of, or, maybe sold off secondhand.

Even the memory of me would dissipate faster than the natural erosion of the leftover Big Mac sitting unattended in the fridge.

My eyes shut now.

I’ll admit, in the final moments, there was trepidation. No. Worry. Let’s call it what it was: Fear. Despite all the unrelenting agony and misery, there was a pit of dread that there would be no striving, no consciousness, no feeling, no nothing.

Maybe, that sensation was only an instinct to hold on until the tumultuous end. Was it just an autonomic response to the unknown or to what we do know? We are, after all, the only species aware of our own impending death. As far as I know.

Wouldn’t it be better not to know?

What I was feeling: like cold water slipping through my fingers. The other way of looking at it, there would be relief when it was all over. Gone would be the unrelenting weight of disgrace pressing down on me. I wouldn’t know I was gone because I would be gone. I wouldn’t notice the absence of shame. I wouldn’t miss the suffocation of my encompassing minor notoriety, bonded to me like Krazy Glue online, trailing after me wherever I ventured. I certainly wouldn’t miss my banishment from the vacuity of my apartment. I’d be glad to be rid of the bustling solitude of the city. There’d be no remorse in the departure of the end of hope.

Good riddance to petty people, the trap of automated customer service, advertisements in elevated decibels for things I didn’t know I needed, static electricity from the unnecessary folding of laundry, talking heads on TV talking about nothing with the import of everything, the yearnings of an untamed heart.

Distant and shallow breathing began to overcome me. 

Last remembrances: I’d miss the rainbows in puddles I stepped over at the curb of sidewalks. A burst of extract, like fireworks, from a bite of a freshly baked cookie. The refrain of vulnerable honesty in a melody heard. The crescent moon in a clear night sky. The last of the drive-in movie theaters discovered on long-lost road trips. Childlike joy over silly things that don’t matter like …

Like nothing.

None of it was enough.

Not nearly.

I wondered how much of the loosening of the moorings was a matter of choice, whether I could will myself to the bitter end, or did I need to continue ladling the little white orbs down my gullet?

I wasn’t giving up so much as easing up on the reins, or so

I sought to convince myself. Stop resisting. Don’t fight so hard.

My heartbeat slowed.

I felt the verging.

I felt nothing.

“Look.”

The voice. Again. I strained to open my eyes. That voice wasn’t me. I was sure ofit this time. I hadn’t said anything. And, look at what? What was there to look at? What was I supposed to look at?

I strained to lift myself onto my elbows. I didn’t see anything.

Why wouldn’t the whispered word leave me alone? What was the point?

Was I just hearing things?

This was a first. Never before had I heard a voice speak to me-a voice without a body, a voice present but not, unseen but here, ephemeral but real.

But then again, why all the fuss? People heard voices all the time, didn’t they? Joan of Arc, for one. But that was a long time ago, learned in a history book, and I didn’t quite remember the details.

Who had spoken to her?

My verdict: Not important. A myth, no doubt. I’m sure others could attest to the authenticity of whispered voices heard if not imagined.

Scanning the emptiness, I took in the blurry shapes before me, discounting one thing after another, dismissing the material objects seen-a toaster, balled socks-until my gaze came to a halt on the still image of the laptop resting on the rickety card table. A mirage? A monument to our postmodern times? A paperweight? The computer seemed to be beckoning me, but without words.

Definitely no words.

Not a single one.

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You can find the book on Amazon here:

https://a.co/d/2YExN7K