Page 58 of Breaking Silence

Considering my own teenage years, I realize it’s a possibility. “Let’s check the loft.”

“Lead the way.”

I hand the Maglite to Tomasetti. Spotting the loft ladder, which consists of six short timbers nailed to the wall, I look up into the darkness. “Mose!” I shout. “It’s Kate Burkholder.”

The unmistakable thud of hurried footsteps on the wood ceiling sounds above us. I glance at Tomasetti. He motions with the light toward the opening, and I begin a too-fast climb to the top.

I feel confident we’re not in any danger; I’m more worried about Mose. He’s suffered a terrible loss and has been under a tremendous amount of emotional distress. Still, I don’t like the idea of entering a place totally blind.

Reaching the top of the ladder, I thrust my head and shoulders into the loft. I hear shuffling to my left and immediately sense a presence. Heart pounding, I heave myself up and lurch to my feet. Tomasetti is right behind me with the flashlight. The beam hits the rafters overhead as he climbs up. Then he’s on his feet and the beam sweeps over bales of alfalfa hay. A pink blanket looks out of place spread out on the floor. Then I see Mose. He’s standing next to the stack of hay. He’s wearing trousers but no shirt, and his suspenders are hanging down to his knees. Using his hand, he shields his eyes from the beam of the flashlight.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

Tomasetti steps closer, keeping the light on the boy, purposefully blinding him. “You Mose?”

He squints, his gaze skating from me to Tomasetti. “Who’re you?”

Tomasetti doesn’t answer.

“What are you doing up here?” I ask.

Mose looks uncomfortable. He can’t meet our gazes. “I just … wanted some quiet.”

For an instant, I think maybe we caught him masturbating. Ready to cut him some slack, I glance at Tomasetti. He doesn’t look quite as compassionate. Suspicion glints diamond hard in his eyes. “What are you doing up here, Mose?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

“You’re hiding out here in the dark all by yourself. No one knew where you were.”

“I’m not hiding.” Mose shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m not doing anything.”

I hear movement in the hay. Tomasetti hears it, too, and he jerks the beam left. Salome emerges from behind a tall stack of hay. She’s wearing the blue dress but no stockings or shoes. Her brown hair billows about her shoulders. Her kapp hangs around her neck. She doesn’t meet my gaze, but the guilt on her face is unmistakable.

Shock is like a silent shotgun blast. The concussion pushes me back a step. I stare at her bare feet. I don’t want to acknowledge the thoughts prying into my brain. Ugly thoughts that offend some deeply ingrained sense of morality. Thoughts that affront me with the wrongness of what I see, what I feel in my heart.

Holstering his weapon, Tomasetti steps toward her. “What are you doing out here with him?”

Salome steps back and mutters something unintelligible.

Shaking his head in a gesture that looks like disgust, he shines the light on the floor. The beam stops on the scrap of white fabric lying on a bale of hay next to the blanket. Another layer of shock rattles my brain. Panties. Salome’s panties. I stare at them, aware of the pound of rain on the tin roof, matching the hard pound of my own heart.

The next thing I know, Tomasetti crosses to Mose. “What the hell were you doing with her?”

“We were just talking.”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

A dozen alarms jangle in my head. “Tomasetti,” I warn.

He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t even acknowledge me. Every ounce of his attention is on Mose. “That girl is your sister!” he shouts.

Mose looks down at the ground.

Tomasetti shines the light on Salome. “How old are you?” he demands.

“F-fifteen.” Her voice is little more than a chirp.

“Fifteen?” He gives Mose a dark look, then turns back to the girl. “Did he force you?”