An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(34)

We reach my Explorer and I open the passenger-side door for her. “Get in.”

She obeys without speaking. I go around to the driver’s-side door and slide behind the wheel.

“Where are you taking me?” she asks.

“I’m taking you home,” I tell her.

“I’m sorry I ran away from you.” She reaches into her apron, pulls out a tissue, and hands it to me. “Your face … it’s bleeding.”

I take the tissue, then lean to look at the damage in the rearview mirror. Sure enough, a small line of blood trails down from an inch-long scratch.

Thinking of my upcoming wedding, I frown, blot it with the tissue. “I’m wondering why you marked up the photo like that.”

She looks down and smooths the front of her dress. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Did you know Aden Karn?”

She looks out the window, doesn’t answer.

Sighing, I start the engine. “Were you friends?”

I hear a quick intake of breath. Her shoulders stiffen. Both are minute responses, but I notice, and they are telling.

“No.”

Checking for traffic in my rearview mirror, I pull onto the road. “When’s the last time you saw him?”

She interlaces her fingers, but not before I notice her hands are shaking. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Judging from what you drew on the photo, I’m assuming you didn’t like him very much.”

No response.

I keep my eyes on the road ahead, puzzled, trying not to be annoyed by her refusal to talk, giving her some space. But I know there’s something there. Most people believe that when you’re Amish, life is simple and perfect. The reality is that even the plain life isn’t always so simple. Especially when you’re a teenager and trying to understand the world around you, and you don’t have the guidance or tools to do it.

I can’t fathom why this girl would draw such a crude image on the picture of a dead man and leave it at the scene of his death. I have no idea if they were friends or enemies or simple acquaintances. The one thing I do know is that she’s keeping secrets. If I want to get to those secrets, I need to play it smart.

“Do your parents know?” I ask.

She swings her gaze to me, her eyes wide and alarmed. “Know what?”

“Do they know you were friends with Aden?”

She squeezes her eyes closed. “They don’t know anything. Please don’t tell them I was here. I just want to forget all of it.”

I pull into the lane of the farm where she lives. “What is it you want to forget about, Christina?”

When she only continues to stare down at her hands twisting in her lap, I add, “You know Aden Karn was murdered, don’t you?”

“Of course I know. Everyone knows. That’s all they’re talking about.”

I switch to Deitsch. “You mean the Amisch?”

She nods.

“What are they saying?”

“Just that no one knows what happened. They’re frightened and they’re sad.”

I nod. “Do you have any idea why anyone would want to hurt him?”

“No.”

“Do you know who killed him?”

“Of course not.” She gapes at me as if I’ve accused her of murder. “Am I in trouble?”

“I’m going to do you a favor and let you off the hook for running from me,” I say. “I know you were scared. But in the future, don’t run from the police. We’re here to help people, not harm them, okay?”

She hangs her head and nods. “Please don’t tell my parents I drew that picture.”

I park behind a manure spreader in the gravel area near the big farmhouse and shut off the engine. When it comes to any interaction between me and a juvenile, it’s my policy to never withhold information from parents or a legal guardian. That said, drawing an image on a photo isn’t illegal or even relevant and, therefore, is out of my realm of responsibility.

“How about if I let you tell your parents what happened?” I say. “Does that sound fair?”

She looks away, nods.

I hand her my card, which has my cell phone number on the back. “Christina, if you think of anything important that you forgot to say, or if you just want to talk about something, will you call me?”

Another nod.

“I promise I’ll listen, okay?”

Without answering, she opens the door and slides from the seat. Outside, she looks at me, then slams the door and runs as fast as she can to the house.





CHAPTER 11


Criminals keep terrible hours. They work nights. Weekends. Holidays. You name it and they’re out there, wreaking havoc. Shortly before I began my law enforcement career, I did a ride-along with a veteran officer in Columbus, and I’ll never forget what he told me. “If you want to see action, schedule your ride-along for the graveyard shift,” he’d said. “That’s when the zombies come out. That’s when you find out what really goes on after the sun goes down. That’s when you’ll know if you have what it takes.”

It’s nine P.M. and I’m on my way home, my heart set on a shower, food, and a few hours of sleep, when the call comes over my radio.