Page 32 of Over the Edge

But it wasn’t his bad dream that twisted her nerves into a knot.

It was the large black-and-blue bruise on his upper arm.

A bruise that hadn’t been there when they’d last slept together on Thursday night.

She gripped the edge of the doorframe and held on tight as the floor shifted beneath her feet.

Had he gotten that the day of the Robertson murder? In a struggle of some kind?

Like with someone who was defending himself?

A wave of nausea swept over her, and she covered her mouth with her hand. Stumbled back down the hall. Climbed into bed and burrowed under the covers.

But the warmth of the blanket didn’t stop the shudders rippling through her as she tried to corral the insidious suspicion snaking up her spine.

Chad couldn’t have had anything to do with Friday’s killing. It was impossible. The man she’d fallen in love with may have gone through a black period thanks to the PTSD he’dbrought home from the Middle East, and he may have killed people in combat, but he wasn’t a killer. That’s why his experiences in the army had eaten at his gut and affected his mind. Why he’d needed counseling to help him deal with his demons and put them to rest.

If taken by surprise, though—as he had been the day the other homeless guy had tried to rob him of his coat—was he still capable of inflicting major damage? Of killing?

She wadded the blanket in her fingers.

No.

She refused to believe that.

Besides, from everything he’d told her, the police thought the killing had been prompted by a robbery. And why would Chad steal? The days when he’d taken blankets and food to stay warm and keep from starving were long gone.

The pieces didn’t fit.

Yet the bruises were real.

Chad cried out again from the living room, and she curled into a ball on the bed.

What should she do?

Asking Chad about the bruises—and why he’d hidden them from her—could be a mistake. He might think she had doubts about his innocence. That she suspected him in the Robertson crime, as the police did.

If only she had someone to confide in who could offer her confidential and reasoned counsel.

Unfortunately, her dad back in Caruthersville wasn’t a candidate for that role. He was still angry about her decision to move from the rural bootheel of the state to the big city. Aggravated by her unwillingness to marry a local farmer and spend her life worrying about whether the whims of the weather would determine if they ate macaroni and cheese or steak in any given year. Opposed to what he considered a too-hasty marriage to Chad.

Mom would have understood her desire for a different life if cancer hadn’t taken her too young. Maybe a sister or brother would have too, if she’d had either. Or a close friend.

An image of Lindsey popped into her mind, but she snuffed it out. Despite the woman’s empathy, and despite her efforts tonight at class to reach out, telling her about this could be a mistake. What if the police contacted her again and she let it slip? No matter Chad’s explanation for the bruise, in light of his background the police could assume it was related to what had happened at the Robertson house.

The wind rattled the window, and she tunneled deeper under the covers. An acceptable refuge for tonight, but hiding wasn’t going to solve anything. She had to come up with a plan about how to broach this to Chad without shutting him down.

Until she did, she’d continue to do everything she could to support him.

And ask the Almighty for guidance.

Seven

“YOU MUST NOT HAVE GOTTENmuch sleep last night.”

At the comment, Jack finished topping off his coffee from the community pot in the office breakroom and angled toward Cate. “Why do you say that?”

“You’re drinking the department sludge that masquerades as java.” She wrinkled her nose and pointed to his cup. “What happened to your usual Americano?”

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