“I think this is starting to get complicated,” he says.
“It is.”
“So is that good or bad?”
“It’s good. Too good, probably. That’s what scares me, Tomasetti. We both know how quickly things can get snatched away.”
“It doesn’t always happen that way.”
“Sometimes it does.”
He nods, considering me, weighing my words. “I’m not going anywhere, Kate.”
I want to say something more, but I can’t speak over the knot in my throat. Because I’m supposed to be tougher than that, I give him a nod, look away.
Taking my hand, he leads me toward the hall that will take us to the bedroom. I pause at the doorway. “I should probably close the window.”
“Fuck the window,” he whispers, and takes me into his arms.
CHAPTER 19
I wake to the hard thrum of a pounding head, the smell of bacon, and an all-consuming need to throw up. Trying not to moan, I roll over and reach for Tomasetti, but he’s not there. That’s when I realize he’s probably the one doing the cooking. Moving with the caution of a woman who knows that at any moment her head could explode, I crawl out of bed and stumble to the bathroom.
Four aspirin and a long, hot shower later, I walk into the kitchen and find Tomasetti sitting at the table. His laptop sits in front of him next to a steaming cup of coffee. He glances up when I enter and I see him quickly assess my frame of mind.
“Don’t say it,” I mutter.
“I was going to tell you that you look nice,” he says.
I can’t tell if he’s pulling my leg, so I go directly to the coffeemaker without responding, find the largest mug in my arsenal, and pour.
“I don’t usually see you out of uniform,” he adds. “You have really nice … toes.”
After everything we shared the night before, a comment like that shouldn’t bother me, but it does. I’m wearing a comfy old sweater and jeans, no socks. I don’t understand why he’s commenting. I wish he’d cut it out.
Cup full, I join him at the table. “I’d rather be wearing the uniform.”
“I’m sure you’ll get the go-ahead in a few days.”
I motion toward the laptop. “What are you working on?”
“Final reports. We should be able to close the case today or tomorrow.”
With those words, all the things I’ve been trying not to think about rush at me like a volley of spears: finding Samuel and Ike in the manure pit, Tomasetti’s risking his life to rescue them, the ill-fated car chase, pulling my weapon, finding Mose dead by my own hand.…
“You sleep okay?” he asks.
It’s a silly question, because we didn’t get much sleep. I’m not complaining. I’m closer to him than I’ve been to anyone else my entire adult life. It’s new territory for both of us. A good place to be. I don’t know why that feels so fragile this morning. Maybe because we both know how easily the good things can slip away.
“Thank you for staying,” I say.
His mouth twitches as he slides the laptop into its case. “How do you feel?”
“Better.” I sip the coffee, nearly moan as the elixir swirls around my tongue. “You make good coffee.”
He smiles. “Wait till you try the bacon and toast.”
“Bring it on.”
“You’re out of eggs. You don’t keep much food around, do you?”
“Probably a good thing, since I’m a terrible cook.”
The rare domestic moment is interrupted when my cell phone chirps. Finding it charging on the counter, I glance down at the display, surprised to see the number of the Lancaster County Sheriff’s Office. “Burkholder,” I say.
“This is Deputy Howard. Sorry it took me so long to get back to you, Chief Burkholder. Last time we talked, you mentioned you wanted to speak with the Amish bishop out here. Well, I’m out at Amos Smucker’s place now, and he says he’s happy to talk to you.”
I’d nearly forgotten about my request to speak with Abel Slabaugh’s former bishop. With the case about to be closed, I almost tell the deputy it no longer matters. But I know from experience that information is the one commodity a cop can never have too much of, even if it’s after the fact.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll only take a moment.”
The line hisses as the deputy passes the phone to the bishop. “Hello?”
Bishop Smucker has an old man’s voice with a strong Pennsylvania Dutch inflection. Quickly, I identify myself and get right to my question. “How well did you know Abel Slabaugh?” I begin.
“I’ve known Abel since the day he was born. I was very sad to hear of his passing. He is with God now, and I know he will find peace in the arms of the Lord.”
“Do you know why he drove to Painters Mill, Ohio?”
The bishop sighs in a way that tells me he wasn’t happy about Abel driving a motor vehicle. “Driving is against the
“What boy?” I ask.
“His nephew, I believe.”
“Moses?”
“Yes, I believe that was his name.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and I sense the bishop clamming up. “Was there some kind of problem with Mose?” I ask, pressing.
The old man hesitates. “Abel confided in me, told me there was a family crisis.”
“Bishop Smucker, I’m the chief of police here in Painters Mill. I’m trying to close a case. In order to do that, I need your help.”
“It is a private matter, Chief Burkholder.”
“I understand. But I still have to ask you why Abel drove to Painters Mill.”
“Abel spoke to me in confidence.”
“Abel is dead,” I say. “So is the boy.”
The old man gasps. “The boy, too?”
“Why did Abel drive to Painters Mill?” I repeat.
He is silent for so long, I think he’s not going to answer. I’m about to try a more forceful tactic, but then he says, “Abel told me his nephew was having … confused feelings for his sister there in Painters Mill. Abel’s brother and sister-in-law were concerned. They asked Abel to drive down and bring the boy back here to live.”
I clip the phone to my belt. When I look at Tomasetti, he’s staring intently at me. “What do you have?” he asks.
I recap my conversation with the bishop.
Tomasetti nods. “Mose knew his parents were going to send him to Pennsylvania. He didn’t want to leave Salome, so he killed them.”
The coffee goes sour on my tongue, and I set down my cup.
Rising, he goes to the counter and slides two strips of bacon and a piece of toast on a plate. He carries it to the table and places it in front of me.
“Thanks.” I don’t want the bacon, but I pick up a piece and take a bite.
