“‘I didn’t think anything of it until I saw him drop a silver tool into his coat pocket,’” I continued, my eyes scanning the elegant, hurried script of my best friend. “‘Later, I checked the vehicle log. Arthur had authorized a special maintenance work order with the local dealership under a corporate account. He used a dummy billing code.’”

I turned the page, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“This is the entry from the night before she died,” I said.

The ink on this page was smeared in places, as if she had been writing in a hurry, perhaps in the dark.

“‘The brakes felt soft on the way back from the girls’ school. I called the dealership. The head mechanic, a man named Henderson, told me the vehicle had been flagged for a full hydraulic line replacement by Arthur’s office. But when I asked why they hadn’t kept the car, Henderson said Arthur personally canceled the order and took the keys back. He told them we would handle it in-house.’”

I looked up at Pierce.

“We don’t have an in-house mechanic,” I said. “We never did.”