being here in the middle of the night is the most natural thing in the world.
I turn the bolt lock and swing open the door. “Don’t tell me,” I begin. “You were in the neighborhood.”
He turns to me, hands still in his pockets, his face deadpan, and for a split second I’m terrified he’s come here with some dire news about the case. “Actually, I drove a hundred miles, against my better judgment and without telling my superiors, to sleep with you.”
I laugh, but it’s a nervous sound. “Well, that’s pretty subtle.”
“That’s me. Mr. Subtle.” His lips don’t move, but I see the smile in his eyes. “Pink robe goes nicely with that thirty-eight.”
Feeling only slightly self-conscious, I glance down at my threadbare robe, then open the door the rest of the way. “Tomasetti, you are so full of shit.”
“Yeah, but you’re still glad to see me.”
The truth of the matter is that he looks damn good standing there in that crisp shirt and those charcoal- colored trousers. Not a good key indicator for a prudent outcome to all this.
I motion him inside. “Is everything okay?”
“Definitely looking up.”
His presence fills the kitchen the instant he steps inside. It’s as if the air itself becomes charged with some electrical energy I feel all the way to my core.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” he says. “I know sleep is tough to come by right now.”
“Sleep is always hard to come by when we’re together.”
“I was talking about the case.”
“That, too.” Before I turn away from him, I see his eyes sweep the length of me. Trying not to let that rattle me, I set my gun on the kitchen table and flip on the light.
“Anything new on the case?” I ask.
Shaking his head, he crosses to the table, works his jacket off, and drapes it over a chair back. I watch as he slides his Glock from his shoulder holster, unfastens the buckle, then sets both on the table. “We got the search warrant for Stacy Karns’s house. By the time the judge signed off, it was too late to get out there. Sheriff’s office wanted to wait until morning to execute it.” He turns to me. “I’ll need to get out of here early.”
“It’s already early,” I say.
“I’ve got a couple of hours to kill.”
“You’re such a sweet talker.”
“That’s what all the female chiefs of police tell me.”
I’ve known Tomasetti for about a year and a half now. After a shaky start and a little bit of head butting, we became friends—something that doesn’t occur naturally for either of us. Maybe because we have so much in common. Or maybe because not all of the things we share are good.
Trust is hard to come by for people like us. But he’s the closest thing to a best friend I’ve ever had. We’ve never discussed it; the truth of the matter is, neither of us is very good at the whole male-female relationship thing. We’re even worse at communicating, especially when it comes to talking about our feelings. This is new ground, I suppose, but I like it. He keeps coming back for more. I keep letting him.
I go to the living room and switch on the stereo. I’ve always loved music, even when I was Amish and it was one of many forbidden fruits. Once, I stole a CD player from an English girl’s car when I sneaked out to the mall. It was filled with a mishmash of genres—rock, mostly—and I couldn’t get enough. I listened to those songs over and over until my
I find Tomasetti standing at the doorway of my office, looking at the map and whiteboard I worked on earlier. He gives me a long look when I come up beside him. “You’ve been busy,” he says.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
He turns his attention back to the whiteboard. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we don’t know the suspect.”
We study the whiteboard for a full minute, neither of us speaking. “I think we’re missing something,” he says finally.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know yet.” He walks over to the map and reads aloud what I’ve written. “Once we figure out the motive, we’ll figure out the who.” He turns to me. “The overriding question being: Why the Amish?”
“Not just the Amish,” I remind him. “Young Amish who have considered leaving that way of life.”
He nods. “Who would be off ended by that? I mean, off ended so profoundly that he’d go to extreme measures?”
“Someone who is devout.” I toss out the first thing that comes to mind, playing off his question, brainstorming. “Someone who disapproves of the way these young people are living their lives. Someone who believes they should be punished.” I look at Tomasetti. “Frank Gilfillan and the Twelve Passages Church.”
“Is he trying to punish them? Recruit them? Or redeem them?”
“Maybe all three.”
“So the fact that these Amish teens are confused about their religious beliefs makes them vulnerable. That’s a benefit to Gilfillan. That’s how he finds them.”
“Maybe Annie King refused to be recruited,” I venture.
“That could fit,” Tomasetti says.
“I’m starting to like Gilfillan for this.” I find myself wanting to return to Buck Creek with him in the morning, so I can be there when they execute the warrant. But I can’t leave with Sadie missing. Not when the last missing girl turned up dead.
An image of Sadie flashes in my mind’s eye. I see her as she was that day on the bridge in her skimpy tank top, with her long brown arms and reckless, engaging smile. Sadie with a can of beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Sadie rolling around on the ground and throwing punches with the abandon of a born street fighter.
“Tomasetti, I don’t want to lose this girl,” I say quietly.
“I know.”
“Sadie is . . .” I don’t know how to finish the sentence. I almost said “special,” but I know in my heart she’s no more special than the others. All of them are someone’s daughter or son or brother or sister. All of them are loved.
“We’ll get him,” he says.
“She’s hard to handle. She won’t acquiesce.” I stare at the whiteboard, but I no longer see the words. “She might not have much time.”
“Kate, we’re doing everything we can.”
That’s one of the things I admire about Tomasetti; he’ll never prop me up with false hope. He’ll never make promises he can’t keep, no matter how desperately I need to hear them.
He crosses to me. “I know what you’re thinking.”
I smile, but it feels crooked on my face. “That I wish I wasn’t on the wagon?”
He’s standing so close, I can smell the remnants of his aftershave, feel the heat radiating from his body against mine. I see the five o’clock shadow on his jaw, the capillaries in eyes that are red from lack of sleep and too many hours on the road.
He frowns, but not in a serious way. “You’re beating yourself up because you’re not out there looking for her.”
The urge to argue is strong. But I don’t. Mainly because he’s right. “Do you want me to lie down on the sofa so you can ask me how I feel about that?”
“I know this is going to be a stunning revelation for you, Kate, but you and I need sleep and downtime, just like everyone else.”
“You’re not trying to tell me we’re human, are you?”
He offers a wan smile, but his eyes remain serious. “I wish I could tell you we’re going to go out there tomorrow and find her and bring her home. That we’re going to get this guy. We both know it doesn’t always work out that way.”
When I look away, he puts his fingertips under my chin and guides my gaze back to his. “The one thing I can tell you is that we’re doing our best. That’s all anyone can do. That’s got to be enough.”
