Page 59 of A Gathering of Secrets

The statement isn’t exactly true. First of all, I’d need a judge to sign off on a warrant; this young woman isn’t a viable suspect. Bringing her in for questioning on such a stretch would be a hard sell. Still, my questions are justified. If Daniel Gingerich is the father of her child, if the sexual encounter between them was not consensual, I have indisputable proof of what he was. I’m one step closer to establishing a motive for his murder. I also have another name to add to my growing list of suspects: Mark Petersheim.

“Tell me,” I say quietly. “Please.”

Ruth chokes out a sound and begins to cry. Raising both hands to her face, she swipes at the tears with shaking hands. “My husband doesn’t know. No one knows. They cannot find out.”

“What doesn’t he know?”

“He doesn’t know William is…” She closes her eyes as if uttering the words aloud is too painful, too shameful, to accomplish. “Mark doesn’t know. Please don’t tell him. He loves little William so much.”

For a full minute, she stands there, head down, sobbing and shaking. Spotting a box of tissues on the coffee table, I tug one out and hand it to her. “Ruth, I’m not the enemy. I’m not trying to hurt you or your husband or that sweet little boy. But I need to know what happened. I can’t walk away from this.”

The statement seems to calm her, drive home the fact that I’m not going to go away, and she regains control of her emotions. Using the tissue, she takes a moment to wipe her eyes and blow her nose.

“Is Daniel Gingerich William’s father?” I ask.

Closing her eyes against a fresh round of tears, she jerks her head. “Yes.”

“You had a relationship with him?”

“No.” She opens her eyes, looks at me. “Not a relationship. Never.”

I wait.

As if resigning herself to physical torture, she sags, her shoulders coming forward, and she looks down at the floor. “I met him a few times over the last few years. You know how it is when you’re Amish. Everyone knows everyone else. Daniel was … nice. Hardworking. All of the Amish thought highly of him.” Her mouth twists. “He was handsome, too. All the girls liked him.

“I’d just met Mark and we’d gone out a few times, but we weren’t that serious yet. We were of Rumspringa age, you know. Both of us were running around a little bit. And so when Danny asked me if I was going to be at the singing over to the Schwartz farm after worship, I told him I’d be there. I figured there’d be no harm in it. I knew most of the other Amish who would be there.”

An Amish “singing” usually takes place on Sunday evening, after worship and at the same farm where worship was held earlier in the day. It’s an occasion in which Amish youths from different church districts can get together, sing hymns, and visit. It usually ends around ten or eleven P.M.

She shakes her head. “I know I’m not much to look at. I don’t know why he chose me. But he was kind and interested, and I was … flattered. Too flattered, probably. So I asked Mamm and she said I could go.”

A smile plays at the corners of her mouth, as if she’s remembering what it had been like to be that young, carefree girl looking to have some innocent fun. But the twisting of her mouth is in direct conflict with the pain etched into her every feature.

“You have to understand, Chief Burkholder. Daniel was from a good family. He had a good job. Made good money, too. Those are important things when you’re a seventeen-year-old Amish girl.”

“You met him at the Schwartz farm for the singing?”

“I did, and he was a perfect gentleman. So funny. He announced several of the hymns that night. Afterward, he offered to drive me home. He had a car, you know, and the thought of riding in it was such a thrill. So I went.”

She looks at me, eyes shimmering, and tilts her head. “We listened to the radio and it was … wonderful. He had a bottle of alcohol beneath the seat. I knew better than to drink. It’s forbidden in our church district, you know. But it was … exciting, too. We parked and listened to music and drank tequila right out of the bottle.”

Her mouth tightens. A flash of shame in her eyes. “It was the first time I ever drank alcohol and I couldn’t handle it. I drank too much. At first it was fun, but then … I told him I wanted to go home. I thought it was going to be okay. I thought …

“Chief Burkholder, something happened to him when we were parked out there on that back road.” She says the words so quietly, I have to move closer to hear. “It was like he turned into another person,” she whispers. “He … dragged me from the car, threw me on the ground, and he forced me.” The words tumble out of her, a tangle of ugliness and cruelty and shame. “It was like … he turned into someone I didn’t know. Someone I should have been afraid of all along but I was too stupid to see it.”

“Did he rape you?”

She jerks her head. A single, devastating nod. A sob escapes her. Tears shimmer on her cheeks. Snot on her upper lip. She doesn’t seem to notice. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have gone with him. I shouldn’t have drank the alcohol. Worst of all, I was already seeing my husband. But that’s what I get, isn’t it?”

“It wasn’t your fault,” I tell her. “No one deserves that.”

Her eyes go hard. “I’d never … you know. I mean, before that night. A few weeks later I knew I was ime familye weg.”

I stare at her, feeling more than is prudent. “What did you do?”

“I lied. To everyone. To Mark. To myself. I let Mark court me. I … you know, with him as quickly as I could manage.” She closes her eyes, seems to struggle with something. “Mamm told me that those kinds of little white lies are okay as long as they’re used to protect tender feelings.”

“You told your mother what happened?”