Despite my efforts not to, I feel something for this woman. I feel more for Wanetta Hochstetler. Compassion. Pity. Empathy. A sense of outrage at what had been done.

I think of Blue Branson sitting in the jail cell, and I loathe him. “Why did you kill Jules Rutledge?” I ask. “The woman?”

“You think because she was a woman she isn’t guilty? Really, Chief Burkholder? Are you that naïve? Let me tell you about Jules Rutledge. She stood by, watching and laughing as the men took turns brutalizing my mother. She was no different, no better. Worse, perhaps, because she was a woman.” Her gaze meets mine with such intensity that I have the sense of being sucked down into a bottomless black pit, a vortex, and I know something terrible awaits me at the end of it. “They deserved what I did to them. All of them. I have no regrets. My mother always said God would mete out their punishment and that punishment would be just. But she was Amish. I listened to her, but I never believed it. I knew that one day, I would be the one to make things right.”

I think of my own past—the things that happened to me and the things I did about it—and I struggle not to draw parallels, however thin.

“The fall into the well broke her spine,” she tells me. “She had no idea how long she lay there, hours or days. But it wasn’t her day to die. Eventually a local Swartzentruber family came by.” Her mouth curves again. “Sent by God, according to her.” But she waves off the notion. “The Amish family heard her cries and pulled her out. They took her to the midwife. Of course, word got around. Eventually the Englischer police were called, but my mother couldn’t remember who she was or what happened to her. She couldn’t even remember her name. The police assumed she was a local and eventually forgot about her.

“The Swartzentruber family—the Weavers—took her in. Gave her food and clothing and a place to sleep. But there was no love lost between them. You see, my mother…” She lowers her voice as if she’s about to utter words best not spoken too loudly. “Sie is weenich ad.” She was off in the head.

“Six weeks later, she found out she was with child.” The twisting of her lips is a grotesque mask in the glare of the fluorescent lights. She’s an attractive woman, but there’s something ugly beneath the surface of that pretty face, like a hideous scar camouflaged by makeup. “A few years after she gave birth to me, the Swartzentrubers began moving to New York. They were having some trouble with the government. Mamm didn’t go with them.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“By then she’d started to remember things.” Absently she raises her cuffed hands and touches her head. “Like who she was. Her family. What happened to her that night. She went to the bishop and told him everything. He’d heard about an Amish family in Ohio, the missing wife, the dead husband and children that perished in a fire. He called the bishop in Ohio. That was when she found out they were all dead. That … changed something inside her. And it wasn’t for the better. She left the Amish, became bitter and full of hate. I was only five years old—an innocent—but I knew she hated me, too. And I knew my life would never be the same.”

“What did she do?”

“Over the months and weeks, as her memories returned, she told me everything. The bedtime stories I heard at night weren’t about bunnies or bears or horses. They were about violent men and children burned alive. Every day I learned something new and terrible. About my datt. About my brothers and sisters. And about William. Especially William. The one who, because he was so very prideful, brought evil into their home.”

“You were only a child. You couldn’t have understood.”

“I understood enough. Later, when I was older, I understood more. I understood what I had to do to make things right.”

“Your mother wanted revenge?”

“She wanted justice. God’s justice.” A hint of a smile pulls at her mouth. “I wanted revenge.”

“Ruth, as an adult, surely you know she was mentally damaged, injured. She used you. Brainwashed you. An innocent child.”

“Not so innocent, Chief Burkholder. You see, my mother was never strong. I took care of her. She needed me more than I needed her. She made me strong because she knew I possessed what she did not. I had the strength to do what needed to be done.”

“Did you murder Hoch Yoder?”

She waves off the question. “I didn’t have to. He suffered with the melancholy. Had for years. I knew it was only a matter of time before he ended it. One little push from me, and he was all too happy to oblige.”

“Ruth, he was your half brother. And yet you married him.”

“My mother blamed him for the deaths of her children. I did what needed to be done. I have no regrets.”

“Did he know?”

One side of her mouth trembles, as if she’s withholding a smile. “He knew enough.”

I lean back in my chair, trying to digest everything I’ve heard. It’s not easy. I’ve interrogated dozens of criminals over the years, and many of those interviews left me feeling unsettled and disturbed. But I can honestly say none of them ever made me feel as sick inside as I do at this moment.

“You have no idea which of them is your father, do you?” I ask.

A quiver goes through her body. Her hands slowly curl into fists. Only then do I realize I’ve found her weak spot. She was borne of violence, and the question of her paternity has left her twitching inside like a nerve exposed to air.

“My father is Willis Hochstetler.”

“You were born nine months after that night, Ruth. You don’t know who your father is. It could be any of them. Dale Michaels. Jerrold McCullough. Blue Branson.”

“I made them sorry for it, didn’t I?” she says.

“You’re going to be charged with three counts of first-degree murder and two counts of attempted murder of a police officer. You’re not going anywhere for a very long time.”

“So be it. My work is done.”

Needing to get out of there, I turn my attention to the detective. “We’re finished here.” I rise, round the table, and bend so that my mouth is just inches from her ear. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re the spitting image of Blue Branson.”

She lunges at me, but I’m faster and dance out of reach. Before she can make contact, the detective is on his feet, moving between us. The corrections officer darts across the room and presses Weaver back into the chair.

I go through the door without looking back.

*   *   *

I find Tomasetti in the hall, waiting for me. “How did it go?” he asks.

“She confessed. To everything.” I’m not ready to talk about it; I need a few minutes to regroup and dislodge the unsettling sense of ugliness that clings to me.

“You’re shaking.”

I’m not very good at sharing my emotions, especially when they’re dark. It takes me a moment before I can look at him. “She married her half brother. They lived together as husband and wife for years.”

“That’s about as twisted as it gets.”

More than anything in that moment, I want to go to him, put my arms around him because I need to be held. Instead, because we’re in a public place surrounded by our peers, I touch his hand. “Tomasetti, I’m glad you’re here. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he tells me.

We start toward the elevator. “Any word on Pickles?” I ask.

“Glock sent a text ten minutes ago. He’s out of surgery. Prognosis is good. Spleen didn’t make it.”

I choke out a laugh, release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Will you take me to the hospital?”

“You bet.”

The elevator doors slide open.

We ride to the ground floor in silence and start toward the exit. We’ve just reached the Tahoe when Tomasetti takes my hand, stopping me, and turns me to face him. “What about us, Kate?” he asks. “Are we going to get our happy ending?”