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The entry on November 8th was the beginning. Michael’s writing was clear, some words had faded or become a little smeared, but still legible. But all was written in his neat handwriting in black ballpoint ink . . . except for an occasional word in every other paragraph that was written in blue ballpoint. Starting with my name. Michael wrote, ‘Women wear special patterns of textiles. Julia would love . . .’
This was followed by fifteen pages of detailed notes about his work. The next word written in blue ink was ‘if.’ My heart was racing. Was there a message here? A secret one. No wonder Michael was worried about his journal being stolen. The next words were ‘something,’ ‘happens,’ ‘to’ and ‘me.’ A chill ran through me. He was in fear for his life. The next word was ‘they,’ then ‘kille
