Page 73 of Rage

“If you’re as smart as I think you are, you will,” I say. “And you’ll listen.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” she says.

“No one said you did.” I pause, not sure if she’s going to cooperate or bolt. Not sure what I can do about it if she chooses the latter. “Unless you want to end up like Samuel Yutzy, you’ll talk to me.”

The words stop her cold. For the span of a full minute, we stand there, breathing hard, two contenders sizing up their opponent. Now that I’m closer, I can see how young she is. Too young. From a distance, the makeup and dyed black hair make her look more mature, but she’s just a kid. Part of a tattoo is visible at the neckline of her T-shirt. Both earlobes are pierced too many times to count.

“I’m trying to find out what happened to him,” I say quietly. “That’s all.”

“I don’t know!” Her face tries to screw up, but she fights off tears. “All I know is he’s dead.”

A hundred questions rush my brain, each of them vying for position. But she’s badly spooked, so I pull myself back, give her some space.

“Do you have any idea who did that to him?” I ask after a moment.

“I don’t know,” she whispers.

I nod. “Wilma, Aaron Shetler is dead, too.”

“Aaron?” She blinks, and for an instant the tough façade teeters. “I don’t believe you.”

“It’s not a stretch to conclude that you could be in danger, too.”

“No one’s going to find me,” she snaps.

“I did.”

She doesn’t have anything to say about that.

“Will you come to the station with me to talk?” I ask. “I’ll drive you and bring you back to your vehicle when we’re finished. Will you do that?”

She looks longingly at her vehicle. “Do I have a choice?”

“You’re not under arrest,” I tell her. “But I have the authority to detain you for questioning.”

“You’re a bitch cop, you know that?”

I nod. “Wilma, I think this would be easier for both of us if you just did the right thing and came with me voluntarily.”

Cursing me beneath her breath, she shakes her head. “You touch me with cuffs or anything like that and I’ll sue you and your stinking little town until you’re bankrupt.”

“No cuffs,” I tell her.

“Then let’s get this shitshow over with.”

CHAPTER 19

Forty-five minutes later, I’m sitting in the war room of the police station. Wilma Borntrager sits across from me, looking pissed off and ready to throw a punch at the first person who comes through the door. Though the air conditioner is cranking, the room is sweltering and her makeup is beginning to melt.

I called Tomasetti on the drive to Painters Mill. He was waiting for us when we arrived. He left the room two minutes ago under the guise of getting water, but I know he’s looking at everything we’ve uncovered about her so far.

“You’ve been a tough woman to locate,” I begin.

Giving me a withering look, she shakes her head, stares down at her hands, as if she’s just made the worst mistake of her life. “Cops aren’t exactly my favorite people.”

The door swings open. Tomasetti strides in, three water bottles in hand. He’s taken on the role of good cop, leaving me to ask the more unpleasant questions, which is probably the best way to play this since the woman sitting across from me seems to have an intense dislike for me.

Tomasetti sets one of the bottles in front of her. As if he’s oblivious to the tension in the room—he’s not—he pulls out a chair at the head of the table—a neutral position by design—and makes a show of opening his own bottle and checking his cell phone.