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Jillian gulps.

Then she reaches into her purse where it rests on the booth next to her and produces a manila envelope. She slides it across the Formica toward me. I see that her nails are bitten down so close to the quick that they’re crusted with bloody scabs.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I wanted to give you a heads up before publication, but you disappeared, and— Not that it’s your fault. It’s not. I know that.” She swallows hard, her throat clicking. “Things got out of hand, Sunshine. Higher powers got involved—not just my bosses, but, like, people with real sway—and it just… it all spiraled. I couldn’t control it anymore.”

I don’t know what I’m feeling right now. There’s a piece of me that’s furious at her. She knew I was falling for Lukas and she pursued this thing without revealing a bit of it to me. Ominous warnings aren’t the same thing as telling me the whole truth.

But there’s another piece of me that understands. Jillian is a journalist. This is what she does. She follows stories wherever they lead, even when they lead somewhere ugly. Even when they lead straight through the people she loves.

And shedidtry to warn me. Multiple times.

I just didn’t want to hear it.

“Open it,” she says, tapping the envelope. “Please. You need to see what they found.”

I hesitate. My fingers twitch toward it, then retreat. Toward, then retreat.

Whatever’s in here, it won’t change anything. I’ve already lost the man I thought I loved. What more damage can it do?

I slide my finger under the flap and tear it open.

Inside are photocopies. A few dozen pages, maybe more, reproduced in stark black and white. I can tell immediately what I’m looking at.

A journal. Someone’s private journal.

The paper is creased and water-damaged in places, the ink faded to near-illegibility in spots. The handwriting on the first page is an elegant, looping cursive with a distinctly European flair. The date at the top readsMarch 3rd, 2007.

“Is this…?”

“Elena’s,” Jillian confirms quietly. “They found it with her remains.”

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.”

“Jill—”

“I know.” She holds up a hand. “I know what you’re going to say. It was unethical. Definitely something that could end my career if anyone finds out.”

“Then why?—”

“Because you needed to see it.” Her bloodshot eyes finally meet mine. “Before the police decided what parts to release to the public. Or worse—what parts to suppress entirely.”

I stare at her. “You think they’d bury evidence?”

“I think Lukas Lazarev has been buying cops and judges in this city for forty years,” she says. “If there’s anything in that journal that contradicts the narrative he wants to tell, it’ll disappear into an evidence locker and never see the light of day again.”

She reaches across the table and taps the photocopied pages once more.

“Read it, Rae. All of it. Then decide for yourself what really happened to Elena Lazareva.”

I look at her, then down at the pages, then back up at her. “What doyouget out of this, Bean?”