Page 54 of The Burning

“He didn’t murder Swanz.”

“Are you saying that as his sister, Kate? Or a cop?”

“Both,” I tell him. “One is not mutually exclusive of the other.”

He sighs unhappily. “What do you suggest?”

“Let me do my job.”

“If you’re asking for my blessing, it’s not going to happen. I’m sorry.”

I ignore the quicksilver twist of pain in my chest. “You know as well as I do that I’ve got a better chance than you or Chambers or anyone else of getting the truth about what happened between my brother and Swanz.”

The friendliness falls away and his gaze grips mine. “You want a friendly word of advice, Kate?”

I stare back at him, my heart beating fast, an uncomfortable knot forming in my chest.

“If you go talk to your brother, I don’t want to know about it.” Eyes never leaving mine, he leans back in his chair. “If allegations of wrongdoing come to a head and the shit hits the fan, you’re on your own. You got that?”

“I got it.” Rising, I push the chair up to the table and leave the room.

CHAPTER 14

I barely notice the snow-covered field or the cattle huddled at the round bale of hay as I zip up the lane of my brother’s farm. I’ve relived my meeting with Rasmussen and Chambers a dozen times during the short drive; I’ve picked it apart. Analyzed what was said. Critiqued my every response. None of what’s happened sits well. The one thing I keep coming back to is the thin line between right and wrong and how easily that line can be blurred. On a professional level, I’m keenly aware that I’m not helping matters. On a personal level, it hurts that Mike Rasmussen, whom I’ve always considered a friend, waffled when it came to supporting me.

The pain of that pounds hard in my chest as I park adjacent the chicken coop and get out. The door to the barn stands open a few feet. Hoping to catch Jacob alone, I head that way.

I find him in one of the horse stalls, mucking. I watch him work for a moment, remembering that I did the same chore hundreds of times as a girl and that once upon a time—before the summer when Daniel Lapp tore apart our lives—Jacob and I were as close as a brother and sister could be.

“Some things never change,” I say.

Straightening, he looks at me, pushes up the brim of his hat with a gloved hand, and smiles. For an instant he looks so much like the brother I’d once idolized that a pang tolls in my heart.

“You were always better at this than me,” he says.

“I was happy to pass the torch.”

He goes back to work and for a few minutes, we simply enjoy the moment, being in each other’s company, the earthy smells of the barn, content to remember without all the complications of our adult lives.

“I need to know what happened between you and Milan Swanz,” I say.

The pitchfork freezes mid-toss; then he empties the tines and scowls at me as if he has no idea what I’m talking about. “I told you,” he says. “Milan did some work for me. On that fence at the side of the property. I paid him. That was the end of it.”

“I know you argued with him, Jacob. I know it was heated. I need you to tell me what that was about.”

He stares at me as if trying to figure out how I could possibly know, and how I have the gall to ask him about it.

“A witness came forward,” I tell him. “He overheard the argument. He saw you with Swanz. In fact, he went to BCI after I spoke to you, and he’s claiming I’m protecting you. I need you to come clean and tell me what happened.”

It takes a lot to anger my brother. Not because he’s easygoing, but because he’s good at keeping all those un-Amish-like emotions tucked away and locked down tight. In all my thirty-six years, I’ve only seen him truly angry a handful of times. As I stand in the aisle and look at him through the stall door, I see that temper peek out at me.

Without speaking, he sets the pitchfork against the stall divider and approaches me. “I’m sorry this has caused you trouble with your police work,” he says. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. But I’ll not speak of what happened to you or anyone else.”

“You don’t have a choice,” I tell him. “I don’t have a choice but to ask.”

“My argument with Swanz has nothing to do with what happened to him.”

“That’s not a good enough answer.”