Page 8 of Fallen

The Amish man raises his gaze to mine. Tears shimmer in his eyes, but he doesn’t let them fall. “Was it an accident? A car?” His mouth tightens. “Or drugs? What?”

I’m not doing a very good job of relaying the facts. My mind is clouded by my own emotions, the things I saw, the things I know about their daughter. “She was found in a room at the Willowdell Motel,” I tell him. “We don’t know exactly what happened, but there was some physical trauma. The police are investigating.”

Rhoda Schwartz presses both hands to her cheeks. Tears well in her eyes and spill. “Mein Gott.” My God.

Dan looks at me, blinking rapidly, trying to absorb. “What kind of trauma?”

I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that he already suspects that his daughter’s antics, her lifestyle, finally caught up with her.

“I believe Rachael was murdered,” I tell them.

“Someone … took her life?” Rhoda chokes out a sound that’s part sob, part whimper. “Who would do such a thing? Why would they do that?”

Dan looks away, silent. The muscles in his jaws work. His eyes glitter with tears, but still they do not fall.

After a moment, he raises his gaze to mine. “Rachael was here? In Painters Mill?”

“You didn’t know she was in town?” I let my gaze slide from Dan to Rhoda, the question aimed at both of them.

Both shake their heads.

“Do you have any idea why she was here?” I ask.

Rhoda doesn’t even seem to hear the question. She’s turned away, wrapped her arms around herself, blind and deaf, cocooned in her own misery. From where I stand, I can see her shoulders shaking as she silently sobs.

“We didn’t know,” Dan tells me.

“When’s the last time you saw her?” I ask.

Dan lowers his gaze to the floor, so I turn my attention to Rhoda.

The woman looks at me as if she’d forgotten I was in the room. Her face has gone pale. Her nose glows red. She blinks as if bringing me back into view. “Right before Christmas, a year ago, I think.”

That Rachael hadn’t seen her parents in almost a year and a half tells me a great deal about the relationship. “Last time you talked to her, did she mention any problems? Was she troubled in any way?”

The Amish woman shakes her head. “She seemed same as always. A little lost maybe. But you know how that goes. She left the fold. That’s what happens.”

“Do you stay in touch with her?” I ask. “Did she call or write?”

“I talked to her on her birthday,” the Amish woman tells me. “I called her. From the pay phone shack down the road there. Been a year ago now.”

“How did she seem last time you talked to her?” I ask. “Did she mention what was going on in her life? Was she having any problems? Anything unusual or worrisome?”

“She was fine.” The Amish woman’s face screws up. Leaning forward, she buries her face in her hands.

I give her a moment and press on. “How was your relationship with her overall?”

“As well as can be expected,” Rhoda tells me. “Bishop Troyer put her under the bann, you know. I never lost hope that she’d find her way back to us, back to the Amish way.”

For the first time I see guilt on their faces, mingling with the grief, as if they’ve just realized they should have softened their stance and stayed closer to their daughter in spite of the rules.

“Did she stay in touch with anyone else here in Painters Mill?” I ask.

“She was always close with Loretta Bontrager,” Rhoda tells me.

I don’t know Loretta personally, but the image of a quiet little Amish girl drifts through my memory. Back then, her last name was Weaver and she was the polar opposite of Rachael. While Rachael was loud and outspoken, Loretta was reserved and shy. No one could quite figure out how they became best friends. Loretta still lives in Painters Mill; I see her around town on occasion. She’s married now with children of her own.

I pull the notebook from my pocket and write down her name.