Page 18 of Over the Edge

“Happy to oblige. I’m pushing twenty-four hours straight.”

“Were you at the mall shooting?”

“Yeah.”

“You should go home and crash after we’re done here.”

“I want to talk to a few neighbors.”

“We can round up reinforcements to handle that.”

True. And one of these days, he’d learn to delegate. To accept that he couldn’t control everything. To trust other people to do what they were supposed to do.

But not today.

“I’ll see.”

“Uh-huh.” Cate gave him an I’m-not-buying-that look and waved toward her screen. “Want to hear what I have on Allen?”

“Yes.”

“Age thirty-one, decorated army hero who served in the Middle East. Awarded a Distinguished Service Cross.”

Jack frowned.

Major disconnect.

How had a guy who’d been recognized for extraordinary heroism with the second-highest army military decoration ended up on the street?

“Heidi Robertson told me he was homeless for a while.”

“Correct. He came back with PTSD, and his life spiraledout of control. He lived on the street for two years. After he got his act together, he went to trade school, did a carpentry apprenticeship, and opened his own company. He got married a few months ago.”

“How did you dig all that up?” In light of Allen’s background, it wasn’t likely the man would have much of a social media presence.

“I’m good at what I do.” Cate smirked at him.

“Let me rephrase my question.Wheredid you dig all that up?”

“Well, if you want to get technical ...” She angled the laptop toward him.

He scooted closer and leaned in, skimming a feature article about Allen in a church newsletter dated a few months back.

“Send me that link.”

“Already done.”

“How did you stumble on that?”

“The truth? Blind luck. I saw a bulletin from this church in Allen’s truck while we were searching it and decided to browse through their website. This popped up while I was scanning their quarterly newsletters.”

“I owe you.”

“I’ll take my payment in the form of a few of those phenomenal chocolate mint squares you brought to Mike’s retirement party last spring. They don’t beat my sister’s baklava, but they’re close.”

“You got it.”

“You want me to coordinate the neighborhood canvas while you go home and sleep?”

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