Troubled Heart
Familiar.
I crouched, frowning, and picked it up.
The cover was cracked and worn. No title, just the initials J.R. embossed in one corner.
My father’s handwriting.
I knew it instantly. The precise, all-caps scrawl, the sharp angles of his letters—like each word was carved into the page rather than written.
“What the hell is this?” I murmured.
I sat on the bed and opened it.
The first few pages were old notes—land records, legal cases, and fire zone documentation. But as I flipped further, the tone shifted. Names I recognized appeared in scribbled, underlined lists. Contracts. Meeting dates. Mentions of lobbyists with whom Stacey had aligned herself.
Bab Populer