An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(63)

For an instant, I consider delaying talking to her out of concern, but I think of where I am in terms of the case and set my sympathy aside.

“Did you find out who did it?” Emily asks after a moment.

“Still working on it.”

“How could someone do something like that?” she whispers. “I still can’t believe he’s gone. Such an awful thing. I don’t understand.”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Someone who’s very troubled and angry.”

She looks at the two glasses in front of her as if trying to remember why they’re there.

“Do you know of anyone who might’ve been angry with Aden?” I ask.

“There is no one.” I can tell by the way she shakes her head that she’s going to give me more of the same I’ve heard about Karn a hundred times before. “Everyone loved Aden. He was sweet. Made people laugh. He helped them when they needed it.”

I think of Christina Weaver, the scene Jimmie Baines described in the parking lot of the Brass Rail, and I feel a surge of impatience, take a moment to frame my question in a way that won’t upset her. “I’ve been talking to a lot of people who knew Aden,” I say. “Some of those people are under the impression that he had a temper.”

“That’s just crazy talk,” she says. “He hardly ever got mad. Had the patience of a saint.” Despite the certitude in her voice, her gaze skitters away from mine.

Something there, a little voice whispers.

“Did you and Aden ever get into an argument about anything?” I ask. “Or have any kind of disagreement?”

“Never.”

“It sounds as if you had a very harmonious relationship.”

“We did,” she says, her voice softening. “He was a good man. Would have been a good husband. And a good father, too.”

Taking my time, I pick up my glass and sip. “Did Aden court any other girls before you?”

“He might’ve gone to a frolic or two.” Her eyes snap to mine. “But there was never another girl he was serious about.”

“Was he always faithful to you, Emily?”

She recoils, offended. “Faithful? Of course he was. Why on earth would you ask such a thing?”

“He was on rumspringa,” I remind her. “Sometimes there was alcohol around. People make mistakes—”

“I was the only one for him,” she snaps. “He told me so.”

Before leaving the station, I printed out a stock photo of a red Altima sedan the same year as Paige Rossberger’s. I also pulled a couple of photos of her from one of her social media accounts on the outside chance someone will recognize her.

I show her the photo of the car first. “Have you ever seen this vehicle parked out at Aden’s house?”

Her eyes flick to the photo, then away. “No.”

I shuffle the paper so that Paige Rossberger’s photo comes into view. “What about this woman?”

She glowers at the photo. For the first time I notice sweat on her cheeks and upper lip. “Who is she?”

“Her name is Paige. She was killed, too. I’m trying to find out what happened to her.”

“What does this have to do with Aden?”

“I’m trying to figure that out, too.”

She looks at the photo again, then at me. “You’re trying to make him out to be a bad person,” she hisses.

“I’m asking questions that need to be asked,” I say.

I wait, but she sits stone-still, arms crossed at her waist, staring down at the glass in front of her.

“Are you sure Aden was always kind to you?” I press.

Abruptly, she scoots her chair back and rises. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

Slowly, I rise. Keeping my voice level and calm, I continue. “If something happened, or you know something, please talk to me.”

But Emily is beyond hearing. She’s reached her breaking point and the resounding crack of it fills the room.

When her eyes fall upon mine again, they’re wild with confusion and grief and what I can only describe as rage. “You’ve no right to come here and talk about him that way,” she cries. “Speaking ill of the dead. Leave me alone!”

She looks around wildly, snatches up a glass of tea, and hurls it at me.

I sidestep, but I’m not fast enough. The glass strikes my shoulder. Cold splashes my face and spreads down my shirt. The glass hits the floor behind me and shatters.

“Go away!” she screams. “Go away!”

Raising my hands, I step back and sidle toward the door. “All right.”

“Evil woman! Don’t ever come back!” she screams. “Get out! Get out!”

I reach for the doorknob just as it flies open.

Clara steps into the kitchen, her eyes widening at the sight of her daughter. “Goodness gracious!” Her gaze sweeps from Emily to me and the dark stain of tea on my shirt, to the glass on the floor.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “She’s upset and I was just leaving.”

The Amish woman jabs a finger at her daughter. “Hoch dich anne,” she says firmly. Sit down.

“She’s fagunna!” Emily uses the Deitsch term for “desiring another’s ill fortune.” “She’s saying awful things about Aden!”