“I understand. So this is personal data from the lives of different people?”
“And about their death.”
There was a pause as John tried to understand Ray’s sentence.
“Then this is bullshit,” he said, so characteristic of John and his blunt way of speaking.
“Not necessarily. I looked into a few of these names, and all of them are real people. Even that family that had the terrible car accident you witnessed.”
“And what does the diary tell about that day?” asked John. Ray felt that he was starting to get the hang of the matter.
“It says they all died then and there.”
John’s panting filled the miles between them.
“Like I said, it’s bullshit. This is some blunder of a crazy modern Nostradamus who wrote that gibberish in his drug-induced or alcohol-filled moments. His predictions were fal
