I flip to the next page. The handwriting is still beautiful here, controlled and precise. But as I continue through the stack, something changes. The loops become less uniform. The lines slant at sharper angles. Words are crossed out, rewritten, crossed out again. By the final pages, the elegant cursive has devolved into something frantic and rushed. The handwriting of a woman coming undone.
“Jillian… how did you get this?”
My best friend’s gaze drops to her untouched coffee. “I may have done some small crimes.” She laughs hoarsely. “I’ll understand if you want to write an exposé of your own.”
I don’t laugh. Hers withers quickly.
“I bribed a forensic tech,” she explains. “It cost me a few grand, but he let me see the photocopied pages before they logged it into evidence.”
“I know.” Sh
