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!”
“You just settle yourself down.” The Amish woman turns to me, her expression angry but controlled. “We buried her beau yesterday, Chief Burkholder. I think she’s had enough questions for one day.”
I hold her gaze for an instant, then turn my attention back to Emily. “If you want to talk, call me anytime. Day or night. I’ll listen.”
Without waiting for a reply, I go through the door.
* * *
Wayne Graber gets off work at five, so I wait until early evening to talk to him. I find his car parked beneath the carport. As I crunch across the gravel, a flock of crows caw from the cornfield beyond.
“Chief Burkholder?”
I look toward the door beneath the garage portico to see Graber coming through, a beer in hand, his hair damp from a shower. “Is everything all right?” he asks.
“Everything’s fine.” I reach him and we shake hands.
“You’re working late again,” he says.
“I didn’t want to bother you at work.” An awkward silence and then I add, “I have a couple of follow-up questions if you have a moment.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
I pull out the photo of the vehicle. “I’m wondering if you’ve ever seen this vehicle.”
He leans closer to the photo, seems to examine it carefully. “Looks like a 2012 or thereabouts.”
“Twenty thirteen,” I tell him.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen it.”
“What about here at the house?” I ask.
“Jeez, I don’t think so.” He gives me a quizzical look. “Whose is it?”
Instead of answering, I pull out the photos of Paige Rossberger. “What about this woman? Have you ever seen her? Spoken to her?”
He stiffens at the sight of the photo. “That’s the girl who was killed.”
“Yes.”
“Why do you keep asking me about her? What does she have to do with Aden?”
“We believe there may be a link.”
“What kind of link?”
I say nothing.
He tightens his mouth. “You’re not going to try and pin what happened to her on Aden, are you?”
“We’re not trying to pin anything on anyone. I just want to know if she was ever here. If her car was ever here.” I shove the picture closer to him, urging him to take a more careful look. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” This time, he doesn’t look at the photo. “Trying to lay some random girl’s murder on Aden is a shitty thing to do. Just because you can’t figure out—”
“That random girl was twenty-six years old,” I snap. “She had a family. A life. People who loved her.”
He looks away, unapologetic, says nothing.
Taking my time, I put the photo back in my pocket. “In the last week before his death, was there a night when Aden didn’t come home? Or a time when you couldn’t reach him?”
“He didn’t have a phone, so it’s not like we texted or anything like that.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think he spent a night out. I really don’t.”
“When’s the last time he had a female visitor here at the house?”
“Last one…” He looks up as if trying to recall. “A couple of weeks ago? I don’t know. I didn’t even meet her. I just remember seeing her walk from his room to the bathroom when I was getting ready to go to work.”