Page 9 of The Hidden One

“Think we can lift it onto the frame?” He bends.

I do the same. “Never met a door I couldn’t handle.”

On the count of three we lift. The door is heavy, with a smooth top and a smattering of nicks. Grunting with effort, we shuffle right and lower it onto the frame.

I run my hand over the top. “Good find, Tomasetti.”

“That’s what I was thinking when I saw you walk in.”

I can’t help it; I laugh. “You’re so full of it.”

He crosses to me, puts his arms around my waist, and presses a kiss to my mouth. He smells of sawdust and man sweat and this morning’s aftershave.

“What’s in the bag, Chief?”

“And I thought I was going to get it inside before you noticed.” I pluck the pencil from behind his ear and tuck it into his breast pocket.

“No such luck.”

I lift the bag and hand it to him, knowing fully I’m grinning like a fool. Feeling too serious because it’s suddenly vastly important that I get this right, and that he like the gift.

“Happy birthday,” I tell him, uncomfortable because my cheeks are hot. “A few days early.”

Arching a brow, wondering about the premature giving of the gift, he reaches into the bag and pulls out the birdhouse. It’s a rustic work of art made with repurposed barn wood, rusty tin shingles, and cedar perches, all of it constructed in the shape of an old German round barn.

“Nice workmanship.” He carries it to the newly installed bench, sets it down, and steps back to admire it.

“Took me a week to make it,” I tell him, deadpan.

His mouth twitches, but he’s looking at me a little too closely. Tomasetti is an astute man; he knows I’ve got something on my mind. But he’s also got a sense for timing and he knows this isn’t the right moment to query.

“Going to look nice in the backyard,” he says.

“Or out by the firepit,” I tell him.

He nods. “I’ve got some steel pipe around here somewhere. I’ll need to pick up a couple bags of concrete at the hardware store. If you dig the posthole, I’ll mount it.”

Suddenly unable to hold his gaze, I go to the birdhouse and run my hand over the roof. “It’s a purple martin house,” I tell him. “They like to nest in open areas, away from trees, with the birdhouse at least twenty feet off the ground.” I’m not a habitual blatherer, but I can’t seem to stop.

Noticing my discomfort, he approaches me, sets his hands on my shoulders, and tilts his head to snag my gaze. “Something on your mind, Chief?”

My eyes meet his and in that instant the floor beneath my feet seems to crumble so that I don’t feel as if I’m standing on solid ground. I’m keenly aware of the warmth of his hands coming through the fabric of my shirt. My pulse throbbing at my throat. We’ve come a long way since we met. We’ve learned to trust. We’ve learned to love. To appreciate. Still, there are times when I feel as if I don’t deserve this. To be this happy. To love this profoundly.

“I think I have to go to Pennsylvania,” I say.

His brows go up in surprise. “A case?”

“Not an official case.”

I tell him about the three Amish men I met with earlier and lay out everything they told me about the discovery of human remains and Jonas Bowman. “I called the sheriff’s department in Mifflin County. They’ve charged him with second-degree homicide.”

“Serious charge.” He thinks about that a moment. “Bowman is from Painters Mill?”

I nod. “His family. I knew them when I was young.”

I can tell by the way he’s looking at me he knows there’s more to the story. That there’s something I’m not telling him. That it’s important. He also knows I’m holding back and he’s not quite sure how to get me to talk. Timing, I think, and I’m glad Tomasetti has it down pat.

“You were close?” he asks.