Chapter 9: The Truth in the Diary

Mr. Wallace’s Story.

(1)

I’d known Sam a bit, about a year before everything fell apart. The Sam I knew wasn’t the monster from the papers—he was flesh and blood, kind, worn down, desperate.

For months after the case, the town gossiped about Sam over dinner. Everyone said the same thing: he was a killer, a psycho, and pitiful in a way that made people uneasy.

But looking at Sam’s life, every bad turn felt inevitable. Sometimes, late at night, I’d stare at the ceiling, wondering how close any of us are to the edge.

(2)

I met Sam in 1999, a summer so hot it felt like the sun was angry.

I’d just left Maple Heights Books and stopped for a soda. Two teenage punks jumped me—one snatched my wallet, the other kicked my knee out from under me.

A young man in a navy work uniform saw it happen and chased them down. That was Sam Easton—serious, just, not looking for thanks.

I offered to buy him dinner. He refused, settled for a drink. He liked chocolate milk—eyes squinting with pleasure when he drank it. I took a soda, and we sat on the curb, awkwardly chatting about our lives.

He’d grown up hard—working after elementary school, caring for a disabled sister, abandoned by his wife, raising a daughter alone. I had a comfortable life, a family, a good job. We shouldn’t have crossed paths, but in a small town, that’s how it goes.

(3)

Sam’s daughter didn’t die by accident. Not really.

That year, Sam got the call: his daughter had fallen at school and was in the hospital. By the time he arrived, she was gone.

There were no cameras then, so the police relied on witness statements. The janitor had left the rooftop unlocked. Sam’s daughter went up alone, despite a friend’s warning, and fell. That was the official story. Sam didn’t buy it—his daughter was cautious, never reckless. He begged the school for answers, but got none. The principal promised to look into it, asked for Sam’s evidence, then went silent. When Sam pressed, he was beaten by security and arrested for causing trouble. The police told him to move on, to have another kid. It was cold comfort.

I didn’t understand it then. But in small towns, nobody wants to reopen an ugly case if it’ll cause trouble. The truth is just the truth.

(4)

Sam’s evidence was his daughter’s diary—a record of months of bullying.

She was beautiful, sweet, and new to school—a target. The bullies blocked her in the hallway, called her names, shoved her into lockers, said she was easy—like she was some prize in a vending machine.

She cried for help, but everyone kept their heads down, pretending not to see—like trouble was contagious.

They isolated her, spread rumors, threatened her if she told anyone. She wrote in her diary:

[Dad works hard for Aunt’s care. I won’t tell him. I can get through this myself. Once I get to high school, everything will be better.]

But she never made it to high school. Sam didn’t know if she jumped or if the bullies pushed her—there was never an answer. All the blame landed on the ringleader: a classmate called “Moon.”

The “Moon” who nearly destroyed Sam’s life.

But as Mr. Wallace wiped his eyes, I realized he wasn’t just telling an old story. He was confessing to something—and I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the rest.