“You sure you’re not trying to cover for your friend?”
He frowns. “I’ve told you everything I know.”
I stare at him until he looks away. In the periphery of my thoughts, I’m aware of the crows cawing in the cornfield. Time ticking away. That I’ve reached one more dead end.
“Sooner or later, I’m going to find out who killed Aden Karn,” I say. “I’m going to find out who killed Paige Rossberger, too. And I’m going to figure out how all of this fits together.”
“Why are you telling me that?”
“Because when I do, you had better hope that every word that came out of your mouth is the truth because if it isn’t, I’m going to come for you, too. Do you understand?”
Shaking his head, he sighs. “I got it.”
“Have a nice day,” I tell him, and I walk away.
CHAPTER 22
I wake with a start from a hazy and disturbing dream. My heart beats a hard tattoo against my ribs. From the dream? Or something else? Beside me, Tomasetti breathes softly. Rolling, I reach for my cell on the night table, check the time. Three sixteen A.M. I’ve been asleep for two hours. I lie in the warmth of the bed, listening, trying to pinpoint what woke me. I’m aware of the patter of rain against the window. The distant rumble of thunder. I’m about to doze off when the sound of pounding sends me bolt upright.
Next to me Tomasetti sits up and we look at each other. “You expecting someone?” he asks.
“Not this early.”
He rolls from bed, slides open the nightstand drawer, and snatches up his Kimber. I get up, yank my sweatpants off the back of the chair, and snag my .38 off the night table.
Tomasetti is already down the hall, his silhouette moving silently into the living room. It’s too dark to see much. I’m ten feet behind him when I spot the light slanting through the window near the front door.
“Someone there,” he whispers.
“With a flashlight.” I sidle to the window and, standing slightly to one side, I use the nose of the .38 to move the curtain aside. Surprise ripples through me at the sight of a man holding a lantern. Flat-brimmed hat. Amish, I realize, and I feel a kick of recognition. The figure next to him is clad in a dark-colored dress. Black winter bonnet.
“You know them?” Tomasetti asks.
“I think it’s Andy Byler.”
Tomasetti flicks on the porch light and, standing slightly to one side, he opens the door and peers out. “Mr. Byler?”
The Amish man turns a grave face to Tomasetti. “We need to see Kate Burkholder.”
I come up beside Tomasetti. Emily and her father are soaked to the skin. Evidently, they traveled via buggy all the way from Painters Mill.
“Mr. Byler. Emily. Come in.” I step back and open the door wider. “Is everything all right?”
The Amish man shakes his head. “No.”
Emily stares down at the ground. Water dripping from the hem of her dress. Her chin.
“Let’s get you dried off.” I leave the three of them standing in the living room and retrieve towels from the linen closet. Back in the living room, I hand one to Emily and then to her father.
“Bad night to be on the road,” I say to Andy.
The Amish man nods at his daughter and for the first time I realize the wet and cold are the least of his worries. He’s distraught. He won’t look at me. Won’t look directly at his daughter.
“She needs to talk to you,” he says. “It won’t wait until morning.”
Curiosity boils in my gut as I turn my attention to Emily. The girl stares at the floor. Holding the bath towel at her side, not using it. Shock, I think, and I glance at her father. He meets my gaze and then slants a look at his daughter. “Dry yourself off, Em, and then you and Chief Burkholder can talk. You can say what you need to say.”
The girl raises her head and looks at her father, but doesn’t seem to actually see him or even recognize him. She shifts her gaze to me and only then do I realize she is the picture of misery. Hollow eyes. Soaked and shivering but not seeming to notice or care.
Gently, I take the towel from her, blot her cheeks, and then run the fluffy terry cloth down the fabric covering her arms, finally draping it over her shoulders.
“I’ll make coffee,” I tell them. “Come into the kitchen.”
Andy shakes his head. “No,” he says. “This is between you and her. I’ll wait outside, in the buggy.”
I glance at Tomasetti. He catches my gaze and motions the Amish man to the sofa. “It’s chilly and wet out there, Mr. Byler. Have a seat here with me and we’ll have some of that coffee. How do you take yours? Black? Milk and sugar?”
The Amish man seems to relax marginally and nods. “Black is fine.”
My mind scrolls through a number of possible reasons for the middle-of-the-night visit as I guide Emily to the kitchen and put her in a chair. Our farm is an hour’s buggy drive from Painters Mill. In the dark and pouring rain, a distance that’s not quite safe. I take a few minutes to brew coffee, making small talk that isn’t responded to. When the coffee is perked, I carry two cups to the men in the living room. Then I return to the kitchen, pour mugs for Emily and me, and I sit at the table, opposite her.
I push one of the mugs at her. “It’s nice and hot,” I tell her. “Go ahead and have a sip. It’ll help take off the chill.”
The girl picks up the cup, sets it down without drinking.
“This must be important for you and your datt to travel all this way so late at night and in the rain,” I say.
For the span of a full minute, neither of us speaks; then the girl looks at me. “I asked God what I should do and He said to tell the truth.”
“The truth is always a good policy,” I tell her.
“Sometimes the truth is so awful you can’t say it.” Her hand shakes when she picks up the mug, so she grips it with both palms, raises it to her lips and drinks. “I wanted it to go away, but it won’t.”
“Is this is about Aden?” I ask.
She nods. “He was … everything to me. I thought he was…” She looks down at the tabletop, nods. “I thought he was good. I mean, he was good, but…” She squeezes her eyes closed for a moment and tears begin to stream down her cheeks. “Sometimes he wasn’t.”
“It’s just you and me, Emily,” I say gently. “Whatever you have to say, I’m here. I’ll listen.”
She stares down at the tabletop. I’m aware of rain tapping on the window above the sink. The low voices of Tomasetti and Andy from the living room. The tick of the coffeemaker as it cools.
“I couldn’t even believe it when he wanted to court me. I’m not much to look at.” A smile plays at the corners of her mouth. “He was so nice. And such a gentleman. Even Mamm and Datt said so.” A sigh shudders out of her. “We didn’t … you know, do anything for the longest time. Even when we were alone, you know. He was the first I’d ever kissed.”
“I understand.”
“Everything was perfect. He was perfect. We were going to get married and have children. Then … a couple months ago he came over in the buggy and took me out for a hot dog and root beer.”