This was what she needed to tell me in person, what was so important she had to show up at my office unannounced. She knew it was something I wanted to hear. Needed to hear. The rage I’d felt for so long after losing Peyton was back and coursing through my veins.
My hand shook, and I clenched my fist to steady it. “Who was it?”
She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Chase. But it was…Eddie.”
***
It had been more than two hours—I’d made the detective go through all of it with me, again and again. I paced back and forth like a caged lion trying to figure out my attack.
Somehow it had been easier to imagine that a group of drug-addicted teenagers from screwed-up homes was responsible for something so violent. The world was a much more fucked-up place when a homeless man people had spent years trying to help was guilty. I didn’t want to believe it was true.
“Where is he?” I demanded.
“Who? Eddie? He’s in custody.”
“I need to see him.”
“That’s not a good idea. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy for you to hear. But I’m hoping that eventually, knowing the case is closed and her killer will be locked away for the rest of his life will help you move on.”
But I had begun to move on. This…this felt like I was being robbed of light I’d only just begun to see after years of walking in a dark place.
I scoffed and then began to laugh maniacally. “Move on. I was moving on.”
Detective Balsamo’s jaw dropped. “I…I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
“Why? Why did he want to hurt Peyton?”
She swallowed and looked at her feet. When her eyes raised to meet mine, her voice was small. “He was in love with her. Apparently, when he saw that she’d gotten engaged, it set him off. He’s not stable.”
“Is he even fit to stand trial?”
“We’ve had two psychiatrists evaluate him. Both say he’s capable of knowing right from wrong. He has obvious mental health issues, but he meets the standard of fit for trial.”
“He confessed?”
“Yes. It’s not perfect—we need to piece together twelve hours of interrogation with one- and two-word answers. But it should stick.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“With the victim’s testimony, he’s going down for first-degree assault or attempted murder on the waitress. For Ms. Morris’s case, the DA says there’s enough physical evidence to put him away without the confession. He was found with the knife on his person, and we interviewed the workers at the shelter. A few had seen him using the pocketknife to cut his food and remembered it. Apparently, it was an antique—a rare officer’s edition made of walnut.”
Walnut.
I froze. “Did it have initials on it?”
“Why, yes. It did. How did you know?”
I ignored her question, needing my own answered immediately. My heart was beating a thousand miles an hour. It felt like my ribcage was going to crack and explode from the pressure.
Detective Balsamo stared at me, her brows drawn. She’d get her explanation after I got my answer. I needed an answer.
“What initials were on it?” I asked.
Seeming to sense my urgency, she reached into her pocket and pulled out her notepad. She flipped through the pages for a while, and I stood completely still. Every muscle in my body had locked.
Eventually, she stopped and pointed to her pad. “The initials were S.E.”
Chapter 31
Chase – Seven years ago
Twenty-seven stitches in his head. Peyton held Eddie’s hand the entire time, even though I wasn’t allowed within two feet. Somehow she’d managed to gain access to the no-people zone Eddie surrounded himself with like an invisible shield.
Looking over at her, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. She was beautiful and soft, sweet and inviting. What man in his right mind would reject her touch?
The ER doc who’d sewed up Eddie’s head asked to speak to me outside the exam room.
“He’s got a collection of fresh scars on his face and head,” he told me as we stepped into the hall. “This one was definitely made with a blade. The jagged skin slice is from a serrated edge. Probably a kitchen knife, if I had to guess. If the slash had been a quarter-inch to the right, he wouldn’t have an eye right now.”
I looked back into the room. Eddie’s stitches ran from his forehead down to his chin. His right eye was swollen shut from the beating he’d taken again last night.
“Eddie doesn’t talk much,” I explained. “But we think it’s a group of teenagers. Apparently it’s a game they play. They earn points for damage they cause to homeless people.”
“I heard about that on the news. Makes me scared for the future of our society.” The doctor shook his head. “Has he gone to the police?”
“Peyton’s tried to get him to. And she’s gone herself a few times—tried to file reports on his behalf. They don’t seem to care.”