Page 58 of A Gathering of Secrets

I smile, hoping to put her at ease. “I drove all the way from Painters Mill. I just have a few questions for you. I promise to keep it short.”

A dozen excuses scroll across her face, but after a too-long moment she acquiesces.

The small house smells of bacon and coffee, with the lingering redolence of dirty diapers. There’s a can of furniture polish with a raggedy dishcloth on the end table.

The Amish woman stops in the center of the living room and turns to face me, blocking my way. “Like I said, I barely knew Daniel Gingerich.”

“Your husband is at work?” I ask.

“Of course he is.”

She doesn’t invite me to sit. Doesn’t want me venturing any more deeply into her refuge.

“I’ve heard a lot of things about Daniel Gingerich in the last few days,” I begin. “Since I last spoke with you.”

She stares at me, blinking, as if she doesn’t know what to make of that or how to respond. She doesn’t know where I’m going with this and she sure as hell doesn’t want me to continue.

“I’m not sure he was the upstanding young man everyone seemed to think he was,” I tell her.

No response.

I pull the baggie containing the photograph of Daniel Gingerich from my pocket, open it, and slide out the photo. It’s the one in which he’s without a shirt, smiling and carefree, showing off his muscles to his girlfriend. I hold it out so that Ruth can see it.

She stares at the photo as if it’s a bloody, violent thing that’s about to jump off the paper and tear her to shreds.

“The other day when I was here,” I say, “I couldn’t help but notice the birthmark on William’s abdomen.”

“He doesn’t have a birthmark.”

“I saw it,” I say gently.

Her mouth opens. She raises her hand and steps back. “I think you should go,” she says in a strangled voice. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

I hold my ground, hold her stare. “I did a little research on moles and birthmarks.” I flick the photograph with my finger. “This type of mole is hereditary. It’s passed down from parent to child.” I wait, but she says nothing, doesn’t respond, so I prod. “The mole on your son’s abdomen is identical to Daniel’s.”

“Sell is nix as baeffzes.” That’s nothing but trifling talk. She takes another step back. A quick glance left. If she’d had a place to run, she would have. But Ruth Petersheim knows there’s no escape. This is a reality she must face. A truth that must be revealed.

“I need you to level with me about your relationship with Daniel Gingerich,” I tell her.

She presses her hand to her mouth as if to suppress a cry, but she doesn’t make a sound. She looks at me over her fingertips, her eyes filling with tears. “I can’t talk about that.”

“Did you have a relationship with Daniel?”

“No. Never.”

“Is Daniel William’s father?”

A brief hesitation and then, “No.”

I say her name quietly, grappling with my own emotions, my patience, my conscience. “Ruth, I know this is difficult. I get that. I’ll do my best to make sure that whatever you tell me today will go no farther than this room.”

“I’m not going to tell you anything. There’s nothing to tell.”

“Did you have a sexual relationship with Daniel Gingerich?”

“No.” For the first time anger resonates in her voice. A flash of denial in her eyes. “What kind of question is that? How could you ask such a thing?”

I repeat the question, more firmly this time. “I need the truth and I need it right now. If you refuse to answer, I’ll have no choice but to come back with a warrant and take you to the police station for formal questioning. If you force me to take that route, I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to keep this just between us.”