“Why does it matter?” he snaps. “They’re with God now.”

“It matters because if Blue was the cause of that fire, he’ll be charged with four additional counts of homicide.”

The Amish man lowers his face into his hands and emits a single sob. “My brothers and sisters … they were frightened of the dark. Mamm kept a lantern on the workbench where she made soap. I lit the lantern. I thought … I thought they would be all right.”

I steel myself against a rolling wave of sympathy. For him. For the children. And for the first time, I’m fully cognizant of the guilt he must have felt all these years. “It was an accident, Hoch. The kids may have panicked and somehow knocked it over.”

“It’s my fault. If I hadn’t left them … they’d still be alive. I’ve prayed for God’s forgiveness. He has given me comfort. Still, those little ones are gone because of me.”

“You couldn’t have foreseen what happened. You did your best, and that’s all any of us can do. It was an accident. God knows that, Hoch.” The words make me feel like a hypocrite; I’m the last person who has the right to talk to this man about God. Still, I believe the words. “You were trying to save your mother’s life. That was very brave.”

“The children suffered because of me.”

“Because of those men. Not you.”

Hoch hangs his head. He doesn’t make a sound, but tears stream from his eyes. He wipes his face with his shirtsleeve. “I bragged about the money. To the Englischer. He was a couple of years older than me, and I … wanted to impress him.” He utters a sad laugh. “I wanted to be cool. Like him. I told him we had jars full of money.”

“Who did you tell?” I ask.

“He’s a government man now. Johnston. He worked for my father for a few weeks. I think he must have told the others.” Pain flashes on his features. “But it was my fault. I was … prideful. That’s not the Amish way.”

I nod, understanding. “You were a kid. You didn’t know someone would act on that information.”

“God punished me. I deserved it.”

“The only people responsible for what happened are Blue Branson and the others.” I reach out and touch his shoulder. “Thank you for telling me what happened. I know it wasn’t easy.”

He raises his head, his cheeks wet. “I hear them sometimes,” he whispers. “When I go out there. I hear them crying for me from the basement.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing.

He blows out a shuddery breath. “What happens next?”

“I’m going to find Ruth Weaver.”

*   *   *

The weight of Hoch’s grief follows me on the drive back to the station. Guilt is always a bad thing, but it’s somehow worse when you’re Amish. It’s times like this when I need Tomasetti most. He’s been on my mind on and off all day, mostly on, despite the fact that I’m fully engaged with the case. I’ve wanted to call him a dozen times, but each time I somehow convinced myself not to. Finally, sitting in my Explorer outside the police station, knowing I’m not going to make it home anytime soon, I hit the speed dial for our home number.

He answers with his usual, “Hey, Chief.”

“Things are heating up with this case,” I tell him. “I just wanted to let you know … I’m not going to make it home tonight.”

“Everything all right?”

I recap the events of the day, and I hear him sigh on the other end of the line. I consider telling him about my plan to stake out Blue Branson’s place tonight, but I don’t want to worry him, so I don’t mention it.

“You’ve had a busy day.”

“Yeah.”

“For a moment there, I thought maybe you were avoiding me.”

“I was, but now that I’m talking to you, I can’t imagine why.”

He laughs. “I’m going to have to think about that one.”

From my place at the wheel, I watch T.J. pull up in his usual parking slot a few spaces down from where I’m sitting and walk into the station. “Tomasetti, this woman has lived off the grid her entire life. She was homeschooled. As an adult, she didn’t get a driver’s license. No credit cards in her name. There’s not a single photo of her I could find. No one knows anything about her.”

“It sounds like her mother’s death put something into motion,” he says. “Maybe before she died, the mother made some deathbed confession that set this woman off. The daughter, distraught and without a support system, took it upon herself to mete out a little payback.”

“What if Ruth Weaver is a result of the rape? What if Wanetta Hochstetler knew it and some part of her hated her daughter for it. What if, over the course of her daughter’s life, Wanetta put her on this path?”

“There is a twisted sort of logic to that.”

“Hatred can take on a lot of different faces.”

“What else do you know about her?” he asks.

“We know she’s armed. Probably bat-shit crazy. Determined.”

“If I were Blue Branson, I’d be looking over my shoulder.”

“He’s in custody.”

In the interminable silence that follows, I groan inwardly because I know he’s just figured out how I’m going to be spending the night. “So when were you going to tell me you’re going to camp out at Blue Branson’s place?”

“I was going to try to avoid that, if possible.”

“And you accused me of not being honest?”

“That’s a different kind of honesty.”

“Goddamn it, Kate.”

“Tell me you wouldn’t be doing the same thing,” I say defensively.

“Aside from that being a bad idea, you don’t have the manpower for that kind of operation.”

“We’re talking about a woman with a .22 revolver she may or may not know how to—”

“Who’s going to be there to cover your back? Pickles? T.J.?”

“Glock.”

“I guess that makes everything all right, then, doesn’t it?” Sarcasm oozes from his every word.

“Tomasetti, I can’t deal with your overreacting every time something dicey comes up with my job. I’m the chief of police. There’s a killer out there, and I know who the target is. Staking out Blue’s place is the best way to stop her, and you know it.”

“What I know is that you should involve the sheriff’s office!”

“And have five cruisers parked in front of Blue’s place? That’s pretty subtle.”

We fall silent. My own words and the anger behind them ring in my ears, and I wonder when we came to this, shouting at each other over the phone. I wonder why I’m so angry. Why I can’t tell him I’m sorry. Maybe because I know he’s right, but I’m going to do this anyway.

“Tomasetti,” I say after a moment.

“I’m here.”

“We have to stop doing this.”

“I know.”

“We need to talk—”

“We need to spend some time together,” he cuts in snappishly.

“When this case is over, I’ll take some time off. We can hang out at the farm and … grill hamburgers and drink wine and listen to the frogs.”

“And fish.”

My anger gives way to a sense of longing so powerful my chest aches. “I’m good at what I do. You’re going to have to trust me. There’s no one else.”

“Who’s going to keep you safe, Kate?”

“Glock’s a good cop. He’s former military and rock solid. We’ll be fine.”

His sigh tells me he’s not assuaged. “Do me a favor and be careful, will you?”

“I always am. I’ll see you in the morning.”

After we disconnect, I realize we didn’t talk about him or how he’s dealing with the release of Joey Ferguson.

CHAPTER 28

A little past midnight, I’m in my office with Glock and T.J. I’ve just briefed them on everything I know about the Hochstetler case and the three recent murders.

T.J. speaks first. “So you think this Ruth Weaver person is going to make a move on Blue Branson?”

I nod. “If we’re right and she’s targeting the people involved in the rape and attempted murder of her mother, she’s got at least one more target.”

“Pretty strong motive,” Glock says.

“Especially if you’re crazy,” T.J. adds.