Fraser had continued his father's habit of keeping a journal; for posterity and for the ability of the written word to present connections and clues that he had heretofore missed. Every day, consular and police duties permitting, he would compile his recollections into little leather bound books; his life, bound within the swirls and loops of his evenly spaced handwriting.
"Hey Fraser, you seen my case notes?"
Ray, however, is never even, never neat. Fraser hands him the pages that he had been desperately searching for. Ray takes them from him with a careless "thanks buddy", and their fingers brush for a brief moment. Fraser watches Ray smile and triumphantly smooth the creases from the tired paper and he thinks that this, this will remain unwritten.