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 Three

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.

It’s a good thing no one was looking. It would’ve been hard to explain: I was crawling on all fours from the futon to the card table. There’s no other way I could have bridged the distance of a mere three feet or so. I was upside down and inside out, dizzy to the point of not being sure I was actually present.

Another batch of pills would have to wait. The booze too. Not to mention the end.

On hold.

Trying not to throw up, I lunged at the foldup chair, clutching the backrest for balance-for a lifeline-pulling myself up to a half-standing position, more hunched, apelike, than homo sapiens erect. But it would suffice, as I pulled the chair out from beneath the table and plunked myself onto the hard metal seat.

Holding the edges of the table, I peered down at the silent laptop.

Vertigo struck. Swaying, I flipped the computer open, pressed the “on” button, and the contraption came to life, casting a ghost-like glow over the dim room now bathed in predawn shadows of unspent dreams.

Hour number three since the bar. Why was I still keeping track? A bad habit. Strapped to my right wrist was a superfluous watch, a monitor of the fractional passage of time, an anachronism of the twenty-first century, an accoutrement, jewelry marking dicks into the similitude of reality.

I knew the drill. I’d done this a million times in my other life as an investigative reporter: Find a person based only on one identifier or two. A name, a place, that was sufficient to get me on my way. I googled the Oklahoma Department of Corrections. Then I navigated to the inmate database and inserted the name-what was it again?-into the blank search field. A six-digit prisoner number popped up. I dicked on the blue hyperlink, and there she was.

Maggie.

Not what I expected. The photo staring back at me was that of a kid-not an adult-with hollow cheeks and a trace in the frozen eyes of something unmistakable: a testimony to agony, to deep despair.

Greetings, mon amie.

It was one of six photos. I dicked on the next. In this one, Maggie was a little older, as told by the filling out of her cheeks. Nourished. Color had returned to her face, yet it was inscrutable. Not happy. Nor sad. Just set, staring blankly, being there.

Then the next photo: Here, a little older, she was wearing glasses. Almost looked bookish. With longer hair, grown out. There was a subtle sense of growing confidence in her eyes, as if maturing into adulthood, beginning to understand who she was. Maybe I was reading too much into the braille of her morphing features.

The fourth photo: A hardening around the mirthless eyes, older still. The work of institutionalization, of hard times and harder experiences. An educated guess: By this point, Maggie had seen it all, and it wasn’t good.

The fifth: This photo must’ve been more recent. There was a symmetry to her fine features, the crystalline of her emerald eyes, now easy in the way they peered into the unseen camera, as if acknowledging the admiration of the lens. It wasn’t just that, though. She had somehow blossomed inside prison, like an unlikely wild daisy sprouting up in neglect between cracked asphalt plates.

There’s that word again: Neglect.

And the sixth, the most recent snapshot: A smile-yes, she was actually smiling for the first time. What was she smiling about?

It wasn’t just a throwaway smile, either. It seemed genuine. It was, I had to admit, a nice smile. No. Not nice. Didn’t like nice. Nice didn’t capture it. Nice shouldn’t have been in my lexicon, not as a writer. Nice was coasting in neutral, safe, sanitized.

Maggie’s smile was … incandescent.

Okay, fine. It wasn’t just the smile. I’d admit, she also had a pretty … nose. Maybe it wasn’t just the nose either. I mean, how do we explain these things? The things we instantly feel that are not contained in what is observed? The sum is greater than its parts, or something like that. Or maybe it goes back to childhood, a connection to what is familial-familiar if forgotten.

Wait. What was that? There was something about her eyes. How could they say so much without saying anything? A deep well of an elusive emotion, inviting, beckoning. They were shaped just so, sparkling, soft, iridescent.

Mascara?

Maggie was wearing makeup. A hint of paint around the eyes. How was that possible? Makeup wasn’t issued in prison. Forbidden. Contraband. But then I remembered. In my work as an investigative reporter, other inmates had told me. They eked ink out of ballpoint pens into a fine mist, mixed it with a dab of water, heated the brew against a barely functional radiator, and-presto-applied to the face. Speaking of which. Maggie’s face. Whether she’d meant to or not, she retained a wisp of innocence about her, a kind of wholesomeness in defiance of the stern place where she was warehoused. Was it the sprinkle of freckles on her cheeks-or something else? It was as if she kept a part of herself guarded against the invasion of prison with its shuttered inhumanity, the way the walls pressed unending days against the psyche.

I mumbled to myself: “She doesn’t belong there.”

Did I say that out loud? These were just pictures on a laptop. One dimensional. The pharmacological effects of the pills were speaking. The tequila was carrying me away. Actually, it was the other way around. The swaying was dissipating. The seasickness was abating. Alertness was returning, which was when I caught sight of the odd identifier in the corner of the computer screen above her picture:

DOB: NOVEMBER 11, 1990

November 11. It was the same date as the discarded newspaper from the garbage can I had visited just hours earlier: 11/11. More symmetry. More concurrence. What did it mean? Nothing. A fluke. That’s what I muttered: “Fluke.” This time I was sure I uttered the word aloud.

What’s more, before I get carried away, Maggie was born in 1990-not the year printed on the pages of the tabloid, 2011. Big difference. So there. Not really all that similar. And lest it be overlooked, we can find similarity where we want, if we try hard enough, if we seek internal logic where there is none. Let’s face it: It’s more comforting to believe there’s a reason for everything-the good and the bad-that we are reigned

by cause and effect, and that righteousness will be rewarded. It doesn’t work that way. I was living proof, exhibit number one. Not that it was worth examining me. Not that it was necessary. I knew what was there without the benefit of reflection. A wreck. Hadn’t shaved in-well, since the implosion. A biblical beard overtook practically half my face: incognito. Unrecognizable. Another person. I hadn’t bothered to brush my hair, a tangle of vectors pointing in different directions, a look of studied disinterest. I had stopped going to the gym. Stopped answering my phone. Let the voicemails pile up until there was no more room. Ignored the emails. Half was junk anyway, solicitations for sundry services and fortunes left in the wills of wealthy people who didn’t exist. Slept fitfully during the day. Stayed up restlessly at night. Immunized myself with drink. Dulled the senses with pills. Tried not to think. Didn’t read. Wouldn’t watch TV. Wrestled with the dark void, with myself, that miserable troglodyte howling on a deserted island of despair.

I was not exactly in a position to do much of anything, let alone help a prisoner in need. I couldn’t even pick up the phone and call her. Prison didn’t work that way. Besides, she didn’t know I existed. Which was for the best. Maggie could do better. Much better. I needed to mind my own business. Deal with my own stuff. Tend to my issues. Confront my own devolvement, if I could ever find the reckless ambition. What else could I do anyway?

You can find the book on Amazon here:

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