Page 101 of A Gathering of Secrets

The old man mutters something appropriately rude beneath his breath.

Skid looks over his shoulder at them. “There goes the neighborhood.” But he’s off-kilter; the words lack his usual cockiness.

Glock and Pickles shuffle in. I make eye contact with Mona and, with a nod, she heads back out to reception.

That’s one of the things I love about my team. Not only are they good cops, but they’re good people. When one of their own is in trouble, they drop everything and show up in force to support them. Skid might be resilient, but he doesn’t have family here in Painters Mill. Last I heard, he doesn’t even have a girlfriend. Tonight, he shouldn’t be alone.

I notice the brown paper bag Glock’s holding at his side and I shake my head. “You sure you want to break the seal on that tonight?” I’m not kidding.

“When the shit hits the fan, Jack Daniel’s comes to the rescue,” Pickles says.

“He’s in good hands,” Glock assures me.

“We’re professionals, Chief,” Pickles adds.

I nod, trying not to notice that Skid has his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

Glock jabs a thumb toward reception. “Those suits out there done with this guy?”

“I think so.” I turn my attention to Skid. “You’re off for a few days, Skidmore. Protocol for an officer-involved shooting. I’ll keep you posted on how things are going, and let you know if we need anything.”

“Great.” He runs his palms over the thighs of his uniform pants and rises. “Appreciate it, Chief.”

Glock cocks his head at me. “You want to come with us, Chief?”

I shake my head. “Jack and I are sort of on the outs.”

He chuckles. “Gotcha.”

I let my gaze connect with Glock’s and then Pickles’s. “If it’s not too much to ask, stay out of trouble.”

“We got this, Chief,” Pickles says, and they usher Skid through the door.

CHAPTER 23

It’s not until I’m home that I realize what an absolute wreck I am. I put on a fresh shirt at the station, but I reek of smoke and sweat and singed hair. The bathroom mirror reveals a face and neck that are smudged with soot and dirt. Hair that’s singed on one side. My left palm is blistered, but I haven’t the slightest idea how it happened. I’ve got a dozen or so pockmarks on my right cheek, small burns more than likely caused by sparks or flying ash.

Tomasetti was with another BCI agent when I left. I caught his eye as I headed toward the door. I could tell by his expression he didn’t want me to leave without him. But I needed to get out of there. On the drive to the farm, I called T.J. to see how it went with the Lambright family. In typical Amish fashion, they’d taken news of Edna’s death—and the circumstances of it—quietly. He’d spent twenty minutes with them, answering questions. Bishop Troyer stayed on, saying he would get a ride home later.

It’s only when I’m in the shower that I examine my own emotions—and relive the horrific moments I was locked inside the barn. The ordeal lasted only a few minutes, but it seemed like an eternity. The sense of being trapped. The terrifying thought of being burned alive. The all-encompassing panic and disbelief.

When I close my eyes, I see Edna Lambright as she lay dying on the ground. I see the blood on her dress. The hole in the fabric where the bullet entered her body. The resolve on her face when she’d spoken her final words.

The Gingerich fire. I set it.…

I rush through the shower, scrubbing myself clean, my hair and face and hands, wishing I could scrub away the images. I don’t want them in my head.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table in my old sweatpants and a T-shirt from my police academy days when Tomasetti comes in the back door. I can tell by his expression that he’s concerned.

“I couldn’t get away,” he tells me as he closes the door behind him.

I smile. “Kind of hard to carry on a relationship with a bunch of nosy cops around.”

“Probably not much of a secret these days.” He crosses to me, sets his hands on my shoulders, and kisses the top of my head. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m okay. Hair didn’t fare so well.”

Spotting the tumbler of whiskey in front of me, he growls low in his throat. “You hate whiskey.”