He’s right about the gossip. Having been the subject of many a malicious conversation when I was an Amish teen and left the fold, I know how painful it can be. But I’m not sure I believe the slew of explanations he’s so diligently thrown out for me, and I don’t cut him any slack.

“Are you?” I ask. “A criminal?”

“I did my time. Paid my due to society. And by the grace of God, I turned my life around.”

It doesn’t elude me that he didn’t answer my question. Rising, I extend my hand. “Thanks for your time.”

He gets to his feet and we shake. “I’m a firm believer in that everyone gets their due, Chief Burkholder, even if they don’t get their day in court.”

“It’s my job to make sure they get that day in court.”

I feel his eyes burning into my back as I make my exit.

CHAPTER 9

Julia “Jules” Rutledge locked the gallery doors at 7 P.M. Usually at the end of the day, she liked to wind down with a glass of chardonnay in her small office at the rear. She should be feeling celebratory this evening, especially since she’d sold the most expensive painting of her career earlier in the day. It was an oil she’d aptly titled Nochmiddawks, the Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch word for “in the afternoon.” She’d completed it last summer and priced it well above market value. It was an Impressionistic style and depicted an Amish girl walking alongside a tree-shrouded dirt road, her feet bare, the strings of her kapp dangling down her back. It was one of the few paintings she’d done that she actually loved. One of the few in which she thought she’d captured the magical light of dusk. The softness of the summer air. The thin rise of dust in golden sunlight. And the heart of a girl whose life was straightforward and simple—two elements people seemed to long for these days. Jules certainly did.

The sale was a surprise since business was usually slow this time of year. Things didn’t pick up until summer, when tourists from all over the world flocked to Holmes County to ogle the buggies, savor the home-cooked food and locally made cheeses, and take in the beautiful countryside.

Ten years in the making, The Raspberry Leaf Gallery was a dream come true. A dream for which she’d made sacrifices and worked like a madwoman to achieve. It was the place where she was the woman she’d always wanted to be. An artist and lover of beautiful things. The gallery had always been a safe place the past could never sully.

But the past had found her, like a monster capable of gaining entry by seeping under doors and through the cracks of the windowsills, like a vicious winter wind. She’d found the most recent note upon her return from lunch. It was taped on the alley door. A single word scrawled on a sheet of lined notebook paper in blue ink. Murderer.

The sight of it had shaken her so thoroughly, she’d nearly closed early and gone home. But Jules knew there was no running from this. No escape. Someone knew she’d been there that night; someone knew what they’d done. And she hadn’t the slightest idea what to do about it.

How do you stop a ghost?

For the dozenth time, she thought about Dale, what had happened to him, the atrocity that was his death. And she knew that even locked away in a place where she’d always felt safe, she wasn’t. None of them were. She didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know who to turn to or who to trust. She thought about calling the police, but knew that would raise too many questions. Questions she had absolutely no desire to answer.

On impulse, she picked up the landline and called the only person she could think of. “It’s Jules,” she said. “I received another note this afternoon. Here, at the gallery. I’m scared.”

A too-long silence on the other end. “You’re calling from the gallery?”

“Yes.”

“The police know about Dale’s phone calls to us.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I know that’s … dangerous at this point. I just … This is serious. For God’s sake, someone murdered him. I’m fucking scared.”

He sighed. “Do you want to meet? Same place?”

“I thought maybe we could talk. See if we can come up with … a plan or something.” She looked at the clock on the wall. “I don’t know what to do.”

“All right. Meet me there in twenty minutes.”

“Thanks. See you then.” Grabbing her bag off the credenza behind her desk, she took a final look at her gallery and left through the back door.

*   *   *

After leaving the Crossroads Church, I grab a large coffee and a BLT at LaDonna’s Diner and head to the station. It’s fully dark by the time I arrive, and the drizzle from earlier has turned into a steady downpour. I walk in to find my second-shift dispatcher, Jodie Metzger, standing at the reception station with her hair mussed and my second-shift officer, Chuck “Skid” Skidmore, standing a scant foot away from her, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his uniform trousers. I can tell by the way they’re looking at me that I’m the last person they expected to walk in on them, and I think, Uh-oh.

“You two look busy,” I say by way of greeting.

Surprisingly, it’s Skid—who doesn’t have a sensitive bone in his body—who blushes. Not because I walked in on them during a compromising moment, but because I’m his direct supervisor and I’m pretty sure I just caught them locking lips on the job.

“Hey, Chief.” Jodie tugs down her tunic and taps on the keyboard of her computer with a freshly painted nail, pretending to be embroiled in the screen in front of her. “You put in a long day.”

“Probably going to get longer,” I tell her. “Anything come back on those names?”

“Nothing on Julia Rutledge or Jerrold McCullough,” she tells me. “Running Blue Branson now.”

“Thanks.” I look at Skid, who glances away guiltily. “Call Pickles and tell him I need to see him ASAP, will you?”

“Happy to, Chief.”

I unlock my office and head directly to my desk. Despite the fact that I haven’t eaten all day, it’s not the BLT—or even the case—I’m thinking about as I unwrap the sandwich and pop the lid off the coffee. Usually Tomasetti and I touch base at least once during the day, no matter how busy we are, but he hasn’t called. Somehow I made it through the day without calling him, and as much as I don’t want to admit it, I’m starting to worry.

I don’t let myself think about any of that as I pick up the phone and dial.

He answers on the second ring. “I was wondering when you were going to call,” he begins.

“I was hoping you’d check in.”

“I was going to.”

Since I’m not sure I believe that, I don’t respond. “Are you home?”

“Not yet.” He doesn’t elaborate.

Because we’ve arrived at an impasse of sorts, I mentally shift gears and spend a few minutes giving him the rundown on the Michaels case. But I sense neither of us is fully focused on the business at hand. There’s another presence on the line with us, and it has nothing to do with my unsolved homicide.

“I’m probably going to be late,” I tell him.

“That’s okay,” he says easily. “I’m running behind here, too.”

“You’re still at the office?”

I wait a beat, but he doesn’t respond. I sigh, not sure if I’m annoyed with him because he’s being evasive—or myself for pressing him when I know he doesn’t want to be pressed. “Tomasetti, I’m trying to give you space.”

“You know I appreciate that, Kate. But no need to worry. I’m fine.”

“You’d tell me if you weren’t?”

“Look, I don’t like it that Ferguson got off. I don’t like it that he’s out. That he got away with what he did. But I’m dealing with it. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

“You’re not trying to tell me to stop worrying about you, are you?”

“Something like that.” But there’s a smile in his voice.

I pause, trying to get my words right, fumbling a bit. “Just so you know … Tomasetti, I’ve got your back. You can count on me. You don’t have to go through this alone.”