Proof of Life

by Sheila Lowe

  PROOF OF LIFE

  A Beyond the Veil Mystery: Book 2

  SHEILA LOWE

  SUSPENSE PUBLISHING

  CONTENTS

  BOOKS BY SHEILA LOWE

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PRAISE FOR SHEILA LOWE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  AFTERWORD

  HOW I BECAME INTERESTED IN THE AFTERLIFE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  POISON PEN

  WRITTEN IN BLOOD

  DEAD WRITE

  LAST WRITES

  INKSLINGERS BALL

  OUTSIDE THE LINES

  WRITTEN OFF

  WHAT SHE SAW

  READING BETWEEN The LINES: HANDWRITING DECODED

  ADVANCED STUDIES IN HANDWRITING PSYCHOLOGY

  PERSONALITY & ANXIETY DISORDERS:

  THE COMPLETE IDIOT’S GUIDE TO HANDWRITING ANALYSIS

  HANDWRITING OF THE FAMOUS & INFAMOUS

  PROOF OF LIFE

  By

  Sheila Lowe

  DIGITAL EDITION

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Suspense Publishing

  Copyright 2019 by Sheila Lowe

  Cover Design: Shannon Raab

  Cover Photographer: iStockphoto.com/ Rastan

  Cover Photographer: MixPixBox

  PUBLISHING HISTORY:

  Suspense Publishing, Print and Digital Copy, May 2019

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  BOOKS BY SHEILA LOWE

  FORENSIC HANDWRITING SERIES

  POISON PEN

  WRITTEN IN BLOOD

  DEAD WRITE

  LAST WRITES

  INKSLINGERS BALL

  OUTSIDE THE LINES

  WRITTEN OFF

  BEYOND THE VEIL MYSTERIES

  WHAT SHE SAW (A BEYOND THE VEIL PREQUEL)

  PROOF OF LIFE

  NON-FICTION

  READING BETWEEN THE LINES: DECODING HANDWRITING

  ADVANCED STUDIES IN HANDWRITING PSYCHOLOGY

  PERSONALITY & ANXIETY DISORDERS: How They May Be Reflected in Handwriting, And Other Important Topics

  THE COMPLETE IDIOT’S GUIDE TO HANDWRITING ANALYSIS

  HANDWRITING OF THE FAMOUS & INFAMOUS

  DEDICATION

  To my daughter, Jennifer Elizabeth Lowe, who has taught me so much about life after earth.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’ve only been studying the Afterlife seriously for a couple of years, but I’ve met many wonderful new friends through the Afterlife Research and Education Institute (AREI), where my beliefs about life after earth are continually re-affirmed. My grateful thanks go to Wendy Zammit, who, despite her incredibly busy schedule, read and corrected what I had written about the séance. To Lauren Mooney Bear for reading and commenting from a medium’s point of view. To Tracey Bolton for the classes in mediumship that taught me how to open my mind, and for the friendship—you can’t share this stuff with just anyone! To all the members of the Automatic Writing and Mediumship Zoom group—you know who you are—thanks for being so supportive. Another medium who deserves a Thank You is Christopher Meredith, for all the helpful readings over the years.

  As always, my gratitude goes to Bob Joseph for being my first listener and never being afraid to tell me when I’ve got something wrong. After Bob, my manuscript goes to Ellen Larson, who has been my independent editor since 2007. Thank you, Ellen, for all the substantive guidance.

  It’s been a long time since I drove to Big Bear Lake in the snow, so I want to express appreciation for the Youtube videos and answers to my questions given by Nikkolas Amstadter of Big Bear Weather and More. To my beta readers, Rick Taylor, Nina Nelson, AJ Llewellyn, Becky Scott, Linda Green, SW Hubbard, and Pamela Asbury Smith. Apologies if I’ve left anyone out, it doesn’t mean I appreciate you any less, I just have a sucky memory for where I wrote down your names. Last, but in no way least, thanks to Shannon Raab for the perfect cover, and to her and John Raab for publishing my books.

  P.S. One of the characters in Proof of Life drives a Tesla. This was an homage to the scientist, Nicola Tesla, who, along with many other enthusiastic people in spirit, is working from the other side with Sonia Rinaldi at the North Station, helping to improve contact between those still on earth and those who have made the transition known as death.

  PRAISE FOR SHEILA LOWE

  “A wonderfully human voice, intense emotions, and a deep dive into the Afterlife. Lowe has created a brilliant backdrop in ‘Proof of Life,’ allowing readers to explore life-altering questions via the imminently likeable Jessica Mack.”

  —K.J. Howe, International Bestselling Author of “Skyjack”

  “The voices recovering amnesiac Jessica Mack hears compel her to search for a missing four-year-old boy, a quest that leads her to the doorway between life and the afterlife and challenges her beliefs on every level. This story rocks.”

  —DP Lyle, Award-Winning Author of the Jake Longly and Cain/Harper Thriller Series

  “A compassionate heroine bridges the divide between the spirit world and earthly evil in this well-paced thriller. ‘Proof of Life’ will keep readers flipping pages all night!”

  —S.W. Hubbard, Author of “Another Man’s Treasure”

  “With ‘Proof of Life,’ Sheila Lowe continues her fascinating series that began with ‘What She Saw,’ where Jessica Mack’s life was fractured in a terrible accident. Now, years later, she struggles to understand a gift she has been given, a gift that frightens her as she attempts to grasp its meaning in her life. ‘Proof of Life’ is a heart-wrenching and heartwarming story that explores the universe beyond the veil, delving into the universal questions we all contemplate. I loved this book and couldn’t put it down! I’m sure Jessica’s story will take readers on a thrilling journey as she discovers new life and new love.”

  —Connie di Marco, Author of the Zodiac Mysteries and the Soup Lovers’ Mysteries

  “A delicious glimpse at what happens when the veil between the two worlds unexpectedly parts. I dare you to put this book down!”

  —Suzanne Giesemann, Author of “Messages of Hope”

  “AWESOME! I’ve already recommended it to friends.”

  —Joe Higgins, Amazon Bestselling Author, Medium, Spiritual Teacher and Intuitive Counselor

  “Fiction can sometimes be a powerful and inspirational way to teach us about life and the afterlife. ‘Proof of Life’ celebrates this truth.”

  —Gary E. Schwartz, PhD, University of Arizona, Author of “The Afterlife Experiments”

  “A brain injury, followed by a coma opens a door wide into the Spi
rit World. ‘Proof of Life’ will have you on the edge of your seat, late into the night as you discover we don’t die.”

  —Sandra Champlain, Author of #1 International Bestseller “We Don’t Die - A Skeptic’s Discovery of Life After Death,” and host of We Don’t Die Radio

  “Dealing with the expectations of dead crime victims takes a toll on Jessica Mack, until she encounters the one case where she must not fail. Highly recommended.”

  —Barbara Petty, Author of the Thea Browne Mystery Series

  “As someone who is interested in the afterlife, NDEs and Mediums, I found that I wanted to find out what happens next, which lead me to read ‘Proof of Life’ in a day. Even without the spiritual elements, it is a great story with a fast moving plot and well-rounded characters. I highly recommend this book for anyone, if you already have an interest in spiritual matters, you will enjoy the portrayal of someone learning to be a Medium. If you currently don't have any interest in spiritual things, maybe this book will ignite a spark that will encourage you to learn more.” (5 Stars)

  —Andrew Rundle-Keswick, Soulful Books Blog

  PROOF OF LIFE

  SHEILA LOWE

  Jessica Mack’s head hit the windshield, killing her instantly.

  Her spirit, detaching from her body, hovered above it for a short time before rising higher and higher above the cliff. High enough to see the driver of the eighteen-wheeler park his big rig on the shoulder of the highway and jump down from the cab, his yellow slicker a neon point of color in the night as he ran to the twisted guardrail and yelled down that help was coming.

  The Camry had come to rest at the bottom of the steep canyon, a smoky plume drifting in defiance of the torrential rain over what was left of the engine compartment. The passenger side windshield where Jessica’s head had connected was reduced to a spiderweb of glass mesh.

  Through the moonless night, her eyes found her husband, full of alcohol and road rage, struggling up the steep cliff, clinging to the manzanita and scrub brush. Greg had been thrown clear when they hit the semi and the Camry went airborne, rolling over and over down the hillside.

  Why wasn’t he checking on her and Justin?

  As her son’s name entered her thoughts, a tunnel of brilliant white light opened in the heavens. His spirit, luminescent in the darkness, left the small body still strapped into its safety seat ten yards from the car and began to ascend.

  Jessica tried to call out to him. Wait for me.

  But like a dreamer whose voice fails to produce sound in the dream, her vocal cords were as unresponsive as the physical body she had left behind.

  The tunnel grew and expanded, accepting her little boy into it, leaving his mother with a last glimpse of his face, radiant and beaming with joy.

  As he disappeared from her sight, Jessica became aware of a shimmering presence, a majestic Being beside her, dressed in pure white robes and bathed in golden light as bright as the sun. Its features were indistinct, but she experienced the Being as masculine.

  Are you an angel? Am I dead?

  She sensed the Being smile with great tenderness as if her questions amused him. That he knew her completely, she had no doubt, and opened herself to the connection without reservation. No words were spoken. He touched her with his mind, impressing his thoughts upon her.

  “You must go back.”

  But I don’t want to. My baby is too young. He needs me.

  “He will never leave you. At the proper time you will be together again.”

  She wanted to resist, to argue and insist that no one could care for her son the way she could. But within the deepest reaches of her soul, she knew that the Being spoke the truth, that her son would be protected and cherished, even though she was not there with him.

  And so, for Justin’s sake, Jessica made the most difficult decision of the thirty-two years she had existed upon the earth. She let her child go on without her.

  In that moment, she felt herself enfolded in unconditional love more profound than anything she could have imagined. Glorious, incredible music entered her, permeating her very being. She was the music. She was the energy of every living thing: animals, plants, the elements.

  There was nothing Jessica wanted more than to stay here, safe and infinitely cared for.

  Without warning, as if she were cresting the tallest roller coaster on earth, then rocketing down the other side at breakneck speed, she found herself shocked back into her body. A body wracked with searing pain. A heart broken by the unspeakable loss of her son. And the utter wretchedness of being separated from the Light.

  The whispers, quiet but incessant, started soon after Jessica awoke from a two-week coma.

  For five years she had kept them at bay.

  Now, they refused to be silenced any longer.

  ONE

  Ariel Anderson Arts on Main was one of several boutique galleries in downtown Ventura. Its high-ceilinged airiness and polished teak floor made it the one Jessica Mack loved best. She backed through the door, cradling a cardboard container the size of a cake box, and set it on the counter as carefully as if it contained the Crown Jewels.

  Ariel’s impatience to see what was inside was written in her body language. Without waiting for an invitation, she lifted the lid and removed the contents, beaming down at the miniature English garden cleverly housed in a vintage watch box.

  “You’ve done it again,” she said with a satisfied sigh. “It’s exquisite. I already have a buyer who’ll go crazy for this.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” said Jessica, reminding herself that Ariel paid well, and the insurance money from the accident would not last forever. Still, the miniatures she created were infused with pieces of her soul. Relinquishing them always hurt like a bastard.

  Sculpting the tangle of roses and hollyhocks that climbed the trellis arch had taken days. The wren perched on the rim of a sundial, hours more. Crocus, lavender, and heliotrope—each tiny flower was a work of art.

  Ariel opened a drawer behind the counter and withdrew a large magnifying glass to inspect the miniature up close. “Look at that gown,” she exclaimed.

  The matchstick-sized Edwardian lady seated at a café table held a tea cup to her teeny-tiny lips. She was outfitted in a pink satin afternoon dress with a long, gold-colored lace jacket and wide-brimmed hat, an orange tabby at her slippered feet, begging for treats.

  Each item had to be held with tweezers under the lens of a strong magnifier so Jessica could painstakingly paint the delicate roses and garlands around the edges of the tea service.

  “How did you ever sew that lace?” asked Ariel.

  Jessica smiled. “Very, very carefully.”

  “I adore the teapot. You painted it yourself, of course?”

  “I did. And yes, I sculpted the cookies, too.”

  “They look so yummy. I can’t imagine a more wonderful spot to sit and have tea than that garden. Jessica Mack, you are one talented artist. The check will be in the mail by Friday.”

  The sheer delight on Ariel’s face made it the slightest bit less painful to leave the miniature behind. At least her art would be enjoyed by someone who appreciated it.

  Jessica picked up her empty carry box. She started to say goodbye, but all at once her tongue was thick and sluggish, distorting the words that came out of her mouth.

  Oh, no. Please not now.

  “Jessica? Are you all right?” Ariel’s voice came from miles away. “Hon? You’re all pale; are you—”

  Her hands were alien things attached to arms that refused to obey. The box clattered to the floor. A voice whispered in Jessica’s head. “My grandma. Tell her I’m here.”

  Leave me alone.

  Her vision was clouding over, growing rapidly darker. She knew Ariel was staring but there was no way she could explain…

  The piercing whistle came next.

  Leaving the box where it lay, Jessica whirled around and dashed across the gallery. She pushed past a startled customer entering the door. By th
e time she reached the Mini Cooper parked at the curb, the darkness that only she could see was almost complete. She fumbled the key fob from her jacket pocket and unlocked the driver door, collapsing into the seat.

  Focus on the breath, Dr. Gold had taught her. Focus on the breath until the noise stops and vision returns.

  Breathe in slowly to the count of four. Hold it. Out to the count of four.

  Ninety seconds passed. She counted them, blessing silence when it fell, then checking in to make sure she still knew who she was.

  The answer brought a flood of relief: I’m Jessica Mack. I live in Ventura, California. I have an identical twin sister named Jenna Sparks. Breathe. In. Out.

  Two more minutes passed. Her body stopped its violent trembling. Her respirations slowed to normal. During those two minutes, Jessica could see Ariel and her customer, glancing repeatedly at the Mini through the gallery window. Probably talking about her weird behavior.

  Before Arial could come out and ask what the problem was, Jessica fired up the engine and backed out of her parking space. The blackout episodes were a secret she had not shared with anyone, not even her twin. No way was she going to try and explain them to a client.

  Dr. Gold called the episodes syncope. The word sounded almost romantic. But there was nothing romantic in blacking out at random. The blackouts used to happen rarely. Lately, it seemed to be exploding out of control.

  Threading her way along busy Main Street, past the antique shops and thrift shops and restaurants, Jessica hooked a right at California, another at Harbor and turned left onto a quiet, tree-lined street. For once, parking at the beach was easy.

  She was not ready to go home and face her fear of what was happening to her. Reaching over to the passenger seat, she snatched up the warm cable knit sweater she had brought and pulled it on.