Page 74 of A Gathering of Secrets

“Do you have a better photo?” Ina asks.

“Just this one,” I tell her.

As unobtrusively as possible, I watch the four women as they scrutinize the still. They’re bent over the counter, expressions serious, brows knit.

“Can’t really see her face,” Ina says.

“Maybe if there was more light?” Neva adds.

“Angle isn’t great, either.” This, from Viola.

“Is there anything at all about her that’s familiar?” I ask. “The shape of her silhouette? The dress? Shoes?”

Edna straightens, removes her glasses, drops them to the lanyard around her neck. “What did she do?”

“I’m not sure she did anything,” I tell her. “At this point, I’m just trying to identify her.”

“I’m sorry we can’t be more helpful.” Edna’s eyes flick past me, to a customer who’s approached with a shopping basket laden with an autumn wreath and kitchen towels. “Zrikk zu verk,” she mumbles to me. Back to work.

A few minutes later, Ina, Neva, Viola, and I are seated at a small oak table in a room that’s not much bigger than a walk-in closet. There’s a rustic butcher-block counter with a porcelain farmhouse sink, a microwave, and a coffeemaker. A mini refrigerator hums from its place in the corner. The table’s centerpiece is a wicker basket containing several dozen candy bars with a small bowl with the words “Honor System” written in Deitsh.

The three girls sit stiffly at the table, trying not to look anxious. Probably wondering why I’ve come back a second time to speak with them. Viola can’t seem to keep her eyes off the bandage on my forearm. “We heard what happened to you,” she says solemnly.

“It must have been scary,” Ina says. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I tell them. I pause a moment before continuing. “You know I’m working on the Daniel Gingerich case,” I say.

Three heads bob in unison.

I focus my attention on Neva. “I know you were close friends with Emma Miller and I understand your loyalty to her.” I take a moment to get my thoughts, my words in order. “I know there may be certain things you don’t want to talk about. Things that are private or painful or both. I’m not here to make you uncomfortable or pry into your personal business. Or Emma’s. But I need you to be honest with me. Do you understand?”

Neva stares at me, eyes wide. Ina and Viola are looking down at the tabletop, not meeting my gaze.

They know where this is going, I think.

“I know what happened to Emma,” I say, keeping it vague, hoping they’ll fill in the blanks. “I need you to tell me what you know.”

I wait, but no one speaks, so I add, “Emma deserves that. The truth. I think she’d want you to do the right thing.”

I let the silence that follows work for a full minute. Just when I think no one is going to respond, Viola makes a sound. I glance over at her. Her head is bent forward. She’s staring at the tabletop, crying.

“We have to tell her,” the girl whispers.

“Viola,” Neva snaps, a warning in her voice.

“Emma wouldn’t want anyone to know,” Ina says.

I give them another minute, then say, “You can trust me with the information. I’ll do everything in my power to keep it confidential. You have my word.”

None of the women meet my gaze. Neva stares down at her hands. Ina looks away, everywhere but at me. Viola covers her face with her hands. She doesn’t make a sound, but I see tears on her chin.

After a moment, Neva raises her gaze to mine. “How did you find out?” she whispers.

“I can’t tell you that,” I say. “But I need to know exactly what happened. If you know something—anything—you need to tell me. Right now.”

Another lengthy silence and then Ina raises her head and glares at Viola. “Since you’re so keen on telling the world what happened, why don’t you just do it?” she snaps.

If an Amish girl could jump out of her skin and run, Viola would have done just that. I wait, expecting her to comply, but she sits frozen in place, unmoving, looking as if she’s being led to her execution.