I reached my brownstone and slowly climbed the stairs. I was physically and mentally exhausted. Once inside, I filled a shot glass and drank it before getting some water and heading into my bedroom. There I fell, face first onto my bed. All I could think about was the last twenty-four hours. Grabbing my journal, I quickly wrote:

Dear Diary,

My best friend has been accused of murdering my ex-fiancé. I couldn’t make that up, even if I wanted to. It’s ...