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)
My goodness. I can’t believe I just had that thought.
Marrying Jason. Living with him. Waking up every morning to his beautiful, sculpted face.
Having his babies, growing old with him.
The thought parts the storm clouds in my mind just a touch.
But as wonderful as they are, none of them will happen unless we get back down to business here.
“What do we do from here?” I ask.
“We’ll take it one step at a time,” Jason says, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself as much as me. “We’ll figure it out.”
But there’s a wariness in his eyes that wasn’t there before, a fearful recognition of the dangerous game we’re playing. Ralph isn’t just some minor antagonist anymore—he’s a threat, a potential murderer. And until we can prove it and put him behind bars, we’re both in danger.
Jason gives Blake a quick call, and we arrange to meet him in an hour.
Fuck. I’m cutting class again, but Jason is more important. I’ll catch up. Or if I have to take the semester off, I’ll do it. I’ll help get Jason through this no matter what.
“Come on in,” Blake greets us as we enter his office in Boulder. “Nice to see you, Angie.”
“You too, Mr. Haywood.”
He holds up a hand. “Blake, please. Now, Jason, let me take a look at those handwriting samples you have.”
Jason hands Blake all the papers, including Lindsay’s handwritten suicide note.
Blake glances at them. “Interesting. My handwriting expert is on the way. She’ll be able to tell us much more, but at first glance, I can see the similarities.”
“Yeah,” Jason says, “and here’s a sample of my wife’s writing, which as you can see, doesn’t match the suicide note.”
Blake nods. “Stephanie will take a look when she gets here. She should be here soon. In the meantime, I have some good news for you.”
Jason’s eyes light up. “It’s about time.”
“Ronny Burgundy was under eighteen when he was arrested for stalking your wife,” Blake says, “but he was arrested again a few years later on a DUI, so his prints are in the system.”
“That’s great!” I say.
“The issue is that Ralph Normandy has no record, so no prints.”
“But we know they’re the same person.”
“We know that the address Mr. Chapman gave you is Ralph’s address,” Blake says. “But we have no way of proving that he actually gave you that address since he is deceased. That’s all we know.”
“We know he thought it was Ronny Burgundy’s address,” Angie says. “Plus Normandy, Burgundy. He’s using French provinces for his last name.”
Blake chuckles. “That’s right, Angie. But that could all be circumstantial. If we can prove this connection and get the prints to match, we may have a case.”
Jason releases a breath. I can see the relief wash over him like a wave, the first real glimmer of hope we’ve seen in days.
Blake’s phone buzzes. “Yeah, Sheila?” he says.
“Stephanie Markham is here.”
“Great. Send her in, please.”
The door swings open, and a petite woman strides in, her dark hair pulled up into a tight bun.
“Sorry for the lateness, got caught in traffic,” she says to Blake and then turns to us. “Stephanie Markham, handwriting expert.”
Jason rises and shakes her hand. “I’m Jason Lansing, and this is Angie Simpson.”
“Good to meet you both.” Stephanie settles down with our notes spread before her.
The room falls silent as she scrutinizes each paper, occasionally jotting notes on her tablet.
After what seems like an hour, Stephanie looks up. Her eyes meet Blake’s, and she gives a short nod. He smiles, the first genuine smile I’ve seen from him today.
“Yes?” Jason asks.
Stephanie turns her gaze to him. “The handwriting on these notes,” she says, pointing to Lindsay’s note and Ralph’s notes, “are most definitely written by the same person.”
Jason and I exchange glances. It’s the confirmation we’ve been hoping for, but it doesn’t make the truth any less chilling.
“What about this one?” I ask, pointing to the sample of Lindsay’s handwriting.
Stephanie shakes her head. “Not a match,” she confirms. “The differences are subtle but they’re there.”
“So Ralph wrote Lindsay’s suicide note.” Jason’s voice is cold.
Blake nods. “It certainly appears so. But we need more than handwriting comparisons to build a case.”
“All right,” Jason says, resolute. “Then let’s get those fingerprints.”
“I’m working on it,” Blake assures him. “If one of my investigators can get into his room…”
Blake goes on, but I stop listening.
Because I’m not waiting any longer.
I’m going to get those fingerprints myself.
Chapter Forty-Two
Jason
This has gone far enough.
After the meeting with Blake and Stephanie, I tell Angie that I have an appointment with Dr. Engel.
I hate lying to her, but I know she won’t question me. After all, she thinks psychiatry is great.
Instead, I take an hour to figure out some things, and then I head to the hospital.
Ralph is going to answer to me.
I drive in silence. No music, no talk radio, just the steady hum of the engine and the rhythmic click of the turn signal when I change lanes. The hospital looms ahead. A place meant for healing. A place that should have saved Julia. Lindsay.