Page 105 of A Gathering of Secrets

She’s referring to a piece that ran in The Budget, the newspaper that serves most of Ohio’s Amish population. Other publications ran stories, too. The Plain Dealer out of Cleveland. The Columbus Dispatch. Stories that elucidated the circumstances of Edna Lambright’s death, including her confession to the murder of Daniel Gingerich.

Absently, Neva rubs away the tears that have begun to fall. “I don’t know what could have compelled her to do such things. To Daniel Gingerich. To you.” She chokes out a sound of pure anguish. “She was kind, and she loved God.…” Lowering her head, she puts her fingers to her temples. “It hurts to think of how all of it must have weighed on her conscience.”

She raises her gaze to mine, tears shimmering, torment etched into her every feature. “What could she possibly have been thinking?”

Those are the questions I’ve struggled with for five days now. Questions I still don’t know how to answer. “We may never know for sure.”

“How could she do that to us?” she whispers.

I think about the final minutes I spent with Edna Lambright in the barn. The things she said. The things she knew.

Danny Gingerich was a devil in disguise.…

“Your mamm knew what Daniel Gingerich was,” I tell her. “She knew what he did to Emma Miller. I think she knew he wouldn’t stop. That he would continue to hurt people.” I shrug. “Maybe she handled it the only way she knew how.”

She stares at me, blinking, looking so fragile I’m almost afraid she’s going to shatter right before my eyes. “Mamm loved Emma like a daughter.”

I nod, wishing there was something I could say or do to ease her pain, but there’s nothing.

“None of that explains what she did to you.” Her whisper is hoarse, her words barely audible.

“I was a threat.” I shrug. “We’ll probably never know all of it.”

She struggles for a moment, then raises shimmering eyes to mine. “I’m sorry for what she did. To you. To Daniel, even. I don’t know how to make any of it right. I’m so … ashamed.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

She shakes her head, tears spilling over her lashes. “I love her. I’ll always love her. And I miss her desperately. But I’m angry with her, too.”

Pulling the shredded tissue from the pocket of her apron, she wipes her eyes. We fall silent and for the first time she looks uncomfortable. I feel that same discomfort. Time to go, I realize. Let this be. Let all of it go and move on.

“I’ve got to get back to the station,” I tell her as I rise. “I just wanted to stop in and see how you were doing.”

She wipes her eyes with the tissue, takes a deep breath, and composes herself. “It must have been hard for you. Thank you.”

Before I can respond, she rises abruptly, rushes to me, throws her arms around me, and buries her face against my shoulder. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Pulling away, she gives me a quick, sad smile and then she’s gone.

I stand there a moment, hands in my pockets, feeling uncharacteristically melancholy. “Bye, Neva.”

Letting out a long sigh, I leave the break room and start toward the front of the store. I’d wanted to see Ina, too, but I’m too raw. Better to leave things as they are and get on with my life.

I’m nearly to the door when I walk past the old-fashioned bulletin board affixed to a column. A piece of card stock tacked to the cork catches my eye. I almost don’t stop, but a prickly sensation on the back of my neck prompts me to turn around and go back.

I scan the board, trying to figure out what had snagged my attention. My eyes are drawn to a handwritten announcement.

Candle making class! Tuesday evening 6:30 to 7:30 PM.

Just $15. Open to the public.

Sign up at the customer service desk. ☺

The advertisement is written on a five-by-eight-inch index card in purple ink, and pinned to the cork with a lime-green tack. Someone has drawn in a smiley face in the lower right-hand corner. There’s nothing particularly unusual about it. Nothing that should have given me pause. And yet …

Around me, the sounds of the shop—conversation, the ding of the cash register, and the clatter of merchandise being handled—fade to babble. My vision tunnels on the handwriting. It’s cursive embellished with ornate swirls and curlicues. There are five “i”s; each one is dotted with a little heart.

I snatch the card from the board and take it to the customer service desk, where a Mennonite woman is helping a customer with a return. I show her the card. “Do you know who wrote this?”