Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
Angie
The next morning we head back to my place, where I find the notes I picked up from Ralph that day in the hall scrunched in the bottom of my backpack.
Jason has Lindsay’s note and the letter that Ronny Burgundy wrote to his friend Steve Chapman.
I’m no expert, but I do see similarities in the handwriting.
“Jason,” I say, grabbing his attention as he paces around the room. “Take a look at this.”
I spread the notes out on the coffee table.
He crouches down beside me. “They’re similar,” he agrees, running a hand over his stubbled chin. “There’s a consistency in the letter formation.”
“And with Lindsay’s note,” I say. “It looks like he made an effort to make the writing a little more feminine, but there are still similarities.”
He nods slowly, his gaze more intense than ever.
“You’re right. The way the letters dip. But it’s still much more precise than the handwriting in that sample from Lindsay’s journal.
” His voice trails off as realization dawns on his face.
He stands and paces, ruffling his hands through his hair. “It was Ralph all along.”
“What are we going to do?”
He sighs. “I don’t know. Blake has his investigators on it, trying to find out who actually beat Ralph to a pulp.
Plus, Ronny Burgundy’s fingerprints should be on file back in New Jersey from when he was arrested for stalking Lindsay.
But he may have been a minor then, which means the documents are probably sealed.
” He shakes his head. “Maybe he was arrested again.”
“Or maybe he wasn’t a minor. He could have been eighteen already. He and Lindsay were seniors together, right?”
“Yeah.” Jason nods. “Blake’s looking into all of it. Even if we can get Ronny’s fingerprints, we have to get Ralphs’s as well.”
I point to the notes. “They’re probably on there.”
“Along with both of ours and who knows who else’s,” he says. “Plus this is regular notebook paper. It’ll be hard to get prints from it.”
“Crap,” I say. Then a lightbulb in my head. “I’ll go see him in the hospital again. Grab something from his room. Like a cup or something.”
“No,” Jason says. “You’re not going near him. I’ll do it.”
“Or we could let Blake get someone to go in and grab something. He’ll be on alert with either of us.”
Jason sighs. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I’m paying this attorney a ridiculous amount of money—”
“Don’t worry about the money,” I interrupt him. “I’ve got it covered.”
His brow wrinkles. “Fuck no, Angie. This isn’t your problem. It’s mine, and I’m taking care of it. I have the money.”
I want to push. Tell him that Blake’s fees are mere pennies to me.
But Jason is proud.
So instead, I say nothing. I let him keep his pride intact, knowing it’s one of the few things he has control over amidst the chaos.
One day, we’ll be married, and his debts will be mine.
And then I’ll pay off his bills.
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.