Page 87 of A Gathering of Secrets

His laugh is bitter. “Not even close.”

He looks away and for the first time I see a chink in his armor. A glimpse of the man he must have been before the woman he loved committed suicide. Before loss and bitterness turned him into something angry and lost, something he can’t quite get a handle on.

“So are you going to arrest me or what?” he asks.

“You’ll be the first to know.” I pluck my card from a compartment on my belt as I rise and hold it out for him. “If you think of anything else, call me. And don’t even think about leaving town.”

He takes the card without looking at it and tosses it onto the tabletop.

* * *

I’m tempted to drive back to Charm tonight, but it’s too late. The shop has been closed for hours. My injured forearm is making itself known in a big way. Besides, getting information out of any of those girls about something so devastating and personal is going to take forethought and finesse—something I don’t think I can manage at the moment. Better to start fresh in the morning.

Dusk has fallen by the time I pull into the long lane of the farm where my sister and her husband live. Despite my best intentions, I missed her birthday. I’ve been carrying around the gift-wrapped candles and teas I bought for her at The Mercantile for a couple of days now.

I’m trying to remember the last time I saw her as I park adjacent to the chicken coop at the rear of the house. It’s been a while. Too long, my conscience murmurs. I love my sister; I miss her, and I think of her often. Spending time with her shouldn’t be so damn hard, but it is.

I look out across the driveway as I take the sidewalk to the back door. The barn door is open and I see her husband, William, inside grooming one of their Standardbreds. He’s watching me, so I raise my hand in greeting. He waves back but the gesture is halfhearted. My brother-in-law doesn’t approve of my leaving the fold; he doesn’t approve of my lifestyle or the fact that I’m living in sin with Tomasetti. Unlike my sister, he makes no bones about letting me know.

The door opens. “Katie! What a nice surprise. Come in!”

Sarah is two years older than me. Blond and pretty with the kind of sweet smile I never quite mastered. She’s wearing a light blue dress with a white apron and kapp. Sneakers. Ever-present dishcloth clutched in work-chapped hands.

Her eyes flick past me and I know she’s looking for Tomasetti. “It’s just me,” I tell her.

“Well, he doesn’t know what he’s missing. I’ve got date pudding and mint tea. Kumma inseid.” Come inside.

Turning, she leads me into a big plain kitchen that smells of something toothsome and delicious. My little niece, Hannah, who has somehow grown into a toddler, is standing in the doorway, clutching an obese cat, watching me.

“Hi, Hannah,” I say. “That’s a pretty little bussli you’ve got there.”

The little girl grins and hefts the cat. “Sammy!” she proclaims.

“Er fett e faul.” He’s fat and lazy. My sister sends her child a sideways glance. “Say hello to Aunt Katie, Hannah.”

The little girl obeys, but her expression lets me know in no uncertain terms that I’m a stranger to her, a fact that hurts more than I want it to.

“I’m just cooking up some of the hembeer for jam,” Sarah says breezily, referring to raspberries. “Schaptzsupp for tomorrow.” She goes to the stove, gives a pot a stir and then turns off the heat. “I heard about what happened to you. My goodness, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I glance down at the bandage and shrug. “Just … at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Setting down the spoon, she looks at the bandage and shakes her head. “I have a boring life compared to yours.”

“Boring is underrated.” I take a chair at the table.

Smiling, she sits across from me. “I’m turning into a bottelhinkel.” It’s the Deitsh word for a worn-out old hen that’s ready for the stewpot. Our mamm used to say it (usually in reference to herself) and the memory takes me back to a time when my relationship with my sister was a lot simpler.

“Happy birthday.” I set the bag containing the gifts on the table and slide it toward her. “Sorry it’s late.”

Eyeing me, she rattles the bag. “I’m just glad you’re here. You don’t come over enough, you know.”

She delivers the admonition in her usual gentle way, which somehow makes the sting all the more powerful. “I got tied up in the Gingerich thing,” I tell her. “Still trying to figure things out.”

“You work too much,” she chides. “And you’re always doing things that are too dangerous for a woman.”

“Or a man.”

She snorts. “That’s my Katie. Taking on the world all by herself.”