“Yeah.” Zeke nods as Detective Watson opens up the last envelope, the one with Zeke’s name on it.
This picture is different. It’s not a long-range shot, something taken at a distance, or even a current picture. It’s a high school yearbook picture of Zeke, from when he was maybe eighteen. A hint of a healing black eye showing under his blue eye.
“What does it say?” Zeke asks, his voice strong, but Brenton can sense the strain he’s under.
“‘Lost little poet, Have you found a home? Shall I take your friends? Or you Alone?’“ Watson reads, and he doesn’t look surprised, more like the poem confirms something.
“You didn’t write that last one, did you?” Andy asks.
“No, but this is my fault, isn’t it? This serial killer, he’s targeting the band because of me.” Zeke’s voice trembles, and he sou
