I sat in the shadows of my living room, beer cans littering the table top. I sipped another, eyes half closed. I finished it, crushed it in my fist and chucked it across the room. It crashed off the wall and onto the floor. I cracked open another.

There were no leads. The trail was cold, lost. Mason gone into the winds like dust. We had nobody, nothing, zip, zada, zilch, shit.

I closed my eyes, only for the memory to surge up. The memory of my death.

My mind reeled against the certainty, the finality of my life. My mind believed two opposite things simultaneously, a paradox. I knew I’d died. I knew I was alive.

I chugged another beer. I had nothing else to do. They’d put me on ‘extended leave’ from the force. I’d been acting strange, not myself. Seeing things, shadows moving that didn’t move, things just on the edge of my perception. Some said the near-death experience had made me bonkers, paranoid, crazy. But my experience wasn’t near-death, it was death.

“Why?” I whispered, over and over. “Why?”