Eddie’s eyes filled with tears. “I grabbed everything. All the papers, the cash, the receipts. There was a sparkly craft bag in the corner. I shoved everything into it and shoved that inside my jacket.” He brushed a speck of glitter off his pants. “Glitter gets everywhere.”
Helen’s hand flew to her mouth. “Eddie.”
“I know! I know it was wrong. But I thought if I could just look through it first, maybe I could prove I didn’t take anything. Or maybe prove who did.”
“Where is it now?”
Eddie stood shakily and walked to a utility closet. He pulled out a glittery craft tote and set it on the desk.
Inside were crumpled papers, cash, and a small ledger.
Ruth leaned in. “Is that the toy drive logbook?”
Eddie nodded miserably. “Everything Stanley kept locked up.”
Nans opened the ledger carefully. Her eyes scanned the pages, then stopped.
“Oh, Stanley.”
“What?”
Nans turned the book so they could see. “The missing money from last year. Stanley took it.”
Silence.
“Stanley stole from the toy drive?”
Nans pointed to entries in Stanley’s handwriting. Cash withdrawals labeled “supplies” and “emergency expenses” that didn’t match any receipts.
“He was skimming. Small amounts over time. And when people started asking questions, he blamed Eddie. And Elaine. And probably others.”
Eddie’s face crumpled. “I didn’t take anything.”
“We know. The proof is right here.”
Ruth’s voice was quiet. “So Stanley died trying to hide his own crimes.”
“He climbed the shelf to get the lockbox because he knew people were asking questions. The shelf he was supposed to fix collapsed under his weight.”
“And Eddie made it look like a cover-up by taking the evidence.”
Eddie buried his face in his hands. “I’m so sorry.”
Nans’ voice softened just a touch. “Jack needs to see this. All of it.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
They were sitting in Jack’s office at the police station—a small, utilitarian room with beige walls, metal filing cabinets, and a desk covered in paperwork. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in harsh white light. A coffee maker gurgled in the corner, half-full with something that looked like it had been there since morning.
Eddie sat in one of the plastic chairs across from Jack’s desk, the glittery craft tote on the floor beside him like evidence at trial. His knit cap was off now, revealing hair that stuck up at odd angles. His hands were clasped between his knees, and he looked like a man who’d been waiting for this moment and dreading it in equal measure.
Nans, Ruth, Ida, and Helen stood near the door—not quite in the room, not quite out of it. Vivian stood with them, her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes red from crying.
Jack sat behind his desk, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. He listened with the same expression he wore when Lexy told him she’d “just stopped by” a suspect’s farm—a mixture of resignation, frustration, and grudging respect.
Nans had just finished explaining. She’d laid out the timeline: Stanley arriving at five-ten, climbing the unstable shelf to retrieve his lockbox, the shelf collapsing and killing him. Vivian arriving at five-eighteen and finding him dead. Eddie arriving at five-twenty-nine and taking the bag in a panic.
But when Nans pulled out the ledger from the craft tote—the one Eddie had reluctantly handed over—and showed it to Jack, his face shifted from annoyance to grim understanding.
