Dead Write: A Forensic Handwriting Mystery Read Free Page B

Annabelle were best friends and classmates.
    “Pete hates me.”
    “That’s not true and you know it. He just doesn’t understand some of the things you’ve been into in the past. But he let Monica go to Six Flags with us last week, didn’t he? And it was cool, wasn’t it?”
    Annabelle smiled at the memory, but she quickly wiped away the smile. It wouldn’t do to let on that she had enjoyed herself. They had spent the day at Magic Mountain in Santa Clarita at Jovanic’s suggestion. He had expressed the view that after the all-too-real terrors that Annabelle and Claudia had experienced together, amusement park screams would be liberating. Watching Annabelle and Monica navigate the rides like other rambunctious fourteen-year-old girls in the park, posturing for young dudes who played it casual and pretended not to notice, Claudia had to admit that he was right.
    “That was pretty fresh,” Annabelle conceded. “But I know Pete won’t let me stay at their house. I could stay here.”
    “Here? You want me to leave you here on your own? I don’t think so.”
    “What about Joel?”
    “As in, you stay here with Joel? Like that’s gonna work. Not! For one thing, it would be totally inappropriate. For another, I wouldn’t trust the two of you not to kill each other.” The moment it was out of her mouth she wished she could take it back. Talk of killing could no longer be taken as a joke.
    But Annabelle wasn’t listening. A calculating look had stolen into her eyes. “I could watch him for you,” she said. “I could make sure he’s not hooking up with that girl—his partner, while you’re gone.”
    “Alex. His partner’s name is Alex. And no, you’re not gonna keep an eye on him. You’re gonna stay under the radar and out of his face. Got it? He doesn’t need watching and I don’t need you to spy for me.”
    The pout was back. “If he was my boyfriend, I wouldn’t want him hanging out with someone who looked like her. Those tight T-shirts she wears, all stretched over her gigantic boobs . . .”
    “Annabelle!”
    The girl caught the warning tone and backed off with a smug look, satisfied that she’d gotten a rise.
    “I’m going to call Pete now,” Claudia said. She pointed a finger at the girl. “See if you can stay out of trouble for the next five minutes, okay?”
    “Okay, but I know he won’t let me stay. Pete fuck ing hates me.”
    It wasn’t until she had boarded the flight to New York that Claudia was able to appreciate how much the responsibility of caring for Annabelle had been weighing on her. It was ironic that buckling herself into the seat belt gave her a sense of freedom—something that she recognized had been missing for weeks.
    Since the murder and everything that had happened afterward, the constant vigilance she’d had to maintain over her emotions had taken a toll. Fighting tears that stung her eyelids without warning. Biting back angry words Jovanic hadn’t earned. She needed some time away from the sidelong glances of appraisal that he thought she didn’t see. The physical space would be therapeutic, she told herself. Some distance from Annabelle’s problems would be a welcome break, too. The girl had a twisted history and she was as immersed in it as she could be.
    They had met the previous fall when Claudia was invited to be a guest lecturer at the private school where Annabelle was a student. The headmistress had asked her to design a program of graphotherapy for the girl—handwriting exercises done to music, which were intended to help level out the shaky emotional ground that had taken Annabelle to the brink of suicide. As they’d worked together, the two of them had formed a close bond, made stronger by shared tragedy.
    A wave of fatigue washed over her and she leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. She loved Annabelle like a daughter, but there was no denying the girl was a handful. Watching the receding tarmac through the aircraft