Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 76717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
I don’t want to ask about any life insurance they had on Julia. But Jason did just say he was debt free. Did he really have to work that close to his daughter’s death?
Or was he trying to escape?
I can’t blame him if that was the case.
He hands me the envelope, his fingers trembling. I take it from him gently, open the flap, and pull out a single sheet of stationery. There’s a faint scent to it, lingering like the ghost of a memory.
The handwriting on the page is a delicate scrawl, neat and androgynous. The words are heartbreaking.
Jason, I’m sorry, but I can’t carry this weight any longer. Losing her shattered me in ways I can’t put into words. I’ve tried to be strong—for you, for us—but the pain is relentless, and I can’t see a way forward.
* * *
Please know this isn’t your fault. You gave me everything, but I’ve lost myself in the void she left behind. I hope you find peace someday, even if I couldn’t.
* * *
I’ll love you forever. See you on the other side, babe.
* * *
Lindsay
I feel a lump in my throat, a burning sensation behind my eyes. I didn’t know Lindsay, but I feel her despair.
But…something is nibbling at the back of my neck.
Something about this does seem fabricated. I take a closer look.
“Are you okay?” Jason asks.
I nod, unable to trust my voice.
The handwriting on the suicide note is neater. Too neat. No personality, no little quirks. Just line after line of careful, practiced strokes.
“There’s no…flourish,” I say. “No heartbeat in it.” I point to the diary entry. “Lindsay’s letters have this wild loop, like here—see the y in actually? That long, curly tail? She did that with her g’s too. Like in forget. They swoop. Like rollercoasters. As opposed to this.” I gesture to the note. “The y’s end in short little hooks, almost like someone’s trying not to take up too much space. And the spacing—Lindsay’s words are close together, almost messy. But on the note, the words are evenly spaced, almost mathematically. Too perfect. Except the slight slant. And the way the lines curl up toward the end of each sentence.”
Jason’s jaw tightens. “But what if a detective says that maybe she just wrote differently because she was upset?”
I bite my lip. “They could try to make that argument. But you don’t just become someone else, change your handwriting, even in your darkest moments.” I return to the diary. “Look at the i’s, too. Lindsay dotted them high. And sometimes with little circles. Quirky. Playful. But here?” I slide a finger over the note. “Tiny dots. Always perfectly centered. Like it came out of a textbook.”
Jason doesn’t respond, but his shoulders tense, and he clenches his hands into fists.
“And look at how she wrote your name.” I lean in. “In the diary, she writes Jason with a tilt. The J curves forward, like she’s leaning into it. Like she’s a little girl doodling Mrs. Jason Lansing in a loopy script. But in the note, the J stands straight up. Like a stranger wrote it.”
Jason grabs the note. “I’m sorry, but I can’t carry this weight…” His voice cracks. “She never talked like that.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Even the tone is off. It’s too measured. I didn’t know Lindsay, of course, but it’s clear that she was full of life. In the diary, she talks about your eyes being like the velvet lining of a jewelry box.” I grin at that. “An accurate description, by the way. But Jason, the woman who wrote this is someone who feels things. Who burns a little too bright.” I take a deep breath in. “If I’m being honest, the note doesn’t sound like someone falling apart. It sounds like someone pretending to.”
Jason bows his head and covers his eyes with one hand. The note slips from his fingers and flutters to the floor.
But I don’t bend down to pick it up. I just place my hand on his shoulder, rub it gently.
“You lost your wife, Jason. Right after you lost your daughter. I don’t think I’ll ever find the words to tell you how sorry I am that you had to go through such a thing.” I close the journal and slide it across the table to him. “But the woman who wrote in this journal definitely didn’t write that note.”
He lifts his head up. “So it’s indeed possible that she didn’t kill herself.”
“Unless she had someone else write the note for her. But who would do that? Any friend close enough to be trusted with such a grave task would surely try to talk her out of it.”
He frowns. “Well, I guess that narrows it down. Or broadens it, depending on how you look at it.”
I nod, my mind racing as I try to piece it all together. “Jason,” I say slowly. “While we’re on the subject, did Lindsay have any friends or colleagues who were close to her? Someone who might know something about this?”