I spent a good part of the morning with my sister, Sarah. To say she was surprised that I wanted to borrow Amish dresses from her was an understatement. A small stab of pain caught in my chest when I saw the flash of hope in her eyes. I knew what she was thinking: that I’d come to my senses and decided to return to the plain life. I didn’t go into detail, but explained to her that I needed the clothes for an assignment.
“Your least favorites,” I told her. “I’m not particular, but the plainer, the better.”
“I’ve more bosom than you, Katie.” She patted her belly. “The baby, you know. I’ll need to take them in.”
“They don’t have to fit well, Sarah. Besides, there’s no time for you to alter them.”
“That’s my Katie, always in a hurry.” But she tempered the statement with a smile.
Remembering I’d be joining the church district in New York as a relatively new widow, I added, “And black, if you have them.”
“Black?” She tossed me a quizzical look, and not for the first time I’m reminded of the stark contrast between my life and hers.
“I can’t get into why,” I told her, relieved when she didn’t press.
An hour later, I walked away with five plain dresses. Three black, one navy, and one dark gray. Five aprons. An organdy kapp and a black winter bonnet. A quick stop at the Walmart in Millersburg, and I own two pairs of plain black sneakers. An insulated black barn coat that comes nearly down to my knees. Several pair of black cotton tights for warmth. Rubber boots for getting around in the snow. Betancourt warned me upstate New York is frigid, with plenty of lake effect snow in late January.
Next, I swing by En Schtich in Zeit, A Stitch in Time. It’s an Amish quilt and sewing shop on Main Street just two blocks from the police station. Twenty minutes later, I walk out with four crib quilts and half a dozen potholders—all by the same quilter so that the stitching and workmanship are consistent. I also purchased a used sewing kit—the kind any Amish woman might have in her home for mending clothes. All of it cost me a month’s salary—which will hopefully be reimbursed by the sheriff’s department—but I figure I’ll need an Amish-related vocation while I’m there. A profession that serves double-duty, because I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to use it to my advantage when it comes to meeting people and, hopefully, infiltrating the community.
I’d texted Mona earlier and asked her to call everyone in the department for a short meeting. I called Glock personally and asked him to meet me beforehand. I know he’ll be happy to fill in while I’m away, but I don’t want to blindside him in front of his peers.
When I pull in to my reserved parking spot, I notice every slot is filled and Glock’s F-150 is already there. I walk inside to find all three of my dispatchers—Mona, Lois, and Jodie—standing at the dispatch station. I can tell by their expressions that they’re wondering why I’ve called a meeting. They know something’s up and speculation is running rampant.
“In case you’re wondering,” I say as I pluck messages from my slot, “I’m not leaving the department.”
“That’s a relief,” Lois says with a sigh.
Mona elbows her. “Told you.”
“And you’re not pregnant?” Jodie blurts.
“Not lately.” I try not to let them see my smile as I continue toward my office. “Send Glock in, will you?”
“You owe me five bucks,” Mona whispers behind me, and the three women break into laughter.
I’ve just let myself into my office and turned on my computer when Glock appears at my door. “You wanted to see me, Chief?”
“Hey.” I motion to the visitor chair. “Have a seat and close the door.”
Rupert “Glock” Maddox is a former Marine with two tours in Afghanistan on his résumé. Not yet forty years of age, he’s a good cop with an easygoing personality, solid judgment, and a wicked sense of humor I enjoy a little too much. He’s my most experienced officer, respected by his peers and the community alike—and the first African American to grace the ranks of the department.
“I feel like I’ve been called into the principal’s office,” he says, but he’s grinning as he takes the chair.
I smile back. “You have.”
“Skid did it, Chief. I swear.”
I laugh outright. Chuck “Skid” Skidmore is one of my other officers. His sense of humor rivals Glock’s, and not for the first time I’m reminded how lucky I am to have these young officers working for me.
“I’m going to be gone for a few weeks, and I’m putting you in charge while I’m away.”
His eyes sharpen on mine. “Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. I’m going to do some contract work for Franklin County in upstate New York.”
“I saw those BCI guys in your office yesterday.” He raises his brows. “New York?”
I tell him about the assignment. He’s the one officer on my team I know does not have a penchant for gossip. “I think it’s going to be a quick in and out, probably two or three weeks.”
He doesn’t look as convinced as I want him to be. “Undercover work can get kind of dicey.…”
“You sound like Tomasetti.” Glock is one of the few who knows Tomasetti and I are living together.
“He’s got a point.”
“We’re talking about an Amish community, so I don’t expect any problems. Still, with regard to the department, and for simplicity’s sake, I’ve decided to keep it vague.”
“Probably a good idea.” He looks at me as if seeing me in a whole new light. “Anything special you want done here while you’re gone?”
“I think business as usual would be our best bet.”
“You got it, Chief.” I’m a little more touched than I should be when he extends his hand to me for a squeeze and a shake. “Will you do me a favor?”
“Name it.”
“Call if you need anything.”
I give his hand a reciprocal squeeze. “Bet on it.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, I’m standing at the half podium in our storage closet–turned–meeting room. Everyone on staff at the Painters Mill PD is here, including Pickles, who just turned seventy-five. As usual, he’s in full uniform, including his trademark Lucchese boots, which are polished to a high sheen. He’s down to about ten hours a week now, which includes the elementary school crosswalk and the occasional jaunt down Main Street to ticket folks who don’t put a quarter in their parking meter.
“Looking sharp, Pickles.” Sitting next to him, Skid nurses an extra large cup of coffee from LaDonna’s Diner. He’s the resident practical joker and all-around smartass, both of which are endearing traits—most of the time, anyway.
“That’s what your wife told me this morning,” the old man replies.
T.J. Banks, my youngest officer and the only rookie, coughs out a laugh.
For the first time it occurs to me that I won’t have my team around to support me. To make me laugh. To back me up. I’m not married to my job, but I enjoy my work. I love the people I work with. They are my family, and the department is the one place, it seems, where I fit in.
I tap the mike, realize I don’t need it, and flip it off. “I just wanted to let all of you know I’m going to be away to consult on a case out of state for a couple of weeks. Glock will be acting chief in my stead. Business as usual here at the station.”
“Which are code words for behave yourselves,” Pickles mutters.
I spend twenty minutes going over assignments and another half an hour as each of my officers reports on things they encountered during patrol since our last meeting. As I wrap things up and watch my team shuffle from the room, I experience an oddly emotional moment and an overwhelming need to call them back. I know it’s silly, but in that instant, it feels as if I’ve bid them farewell and may never see them again.
* * *
I’m sitting at the table in the warmth of our farmhouse kitchen. Rain taps like gentle fingers against the window above the sink. A candle flickers in the center of the table, the scent of warm vanilla wafting up to mingle with the aromas of basil and tomato from the soup simmering on the stove. Tomasetti stands at the sink, rinsing our wineglasses, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. From the living room, Harry Connick Jr.’s smooth-as-silk voice floats on the air like smoke.
It should be one of those rare slices of time when everything is right in the world and I’m reminded of all the things that are settled and good in my life. All the things I have to be thankful for. I’m with the man I love, and confident in the knowledge that I’m loved as fiercely in return. I should be relaxed and happy because I’m ensconced in the warmth and comfort and familiarity of my home. But I’m none of those things. I’m antsy and edgy, and though I should be content, some small part of me is already gone.
The clock on the wall ticks, a metronome that never stops. Another minute gone that can’t be gotten back. I want to reach out and stop those black hands.
At the stove, Tomasetti still has his back to me. He’s putting up a good front, but I know he’s angry with me for agreeing to the assignment. We both know that if he turns, I’ll see what he’s thinking, and this perfect slice of time will no longer be perfect. I don’t know how to make any of it right.
“You’re quiet,” I say when I can stand the silence no longer.
“I’m not the only one.” He looks at me over his shoulder. “I suppose I’m just thinking.”
“About my leaving?”
“About the soup.” But he grins. “Needs a little more cayenne.”
I laugh and some of the tension leaches from my shoulders. “I miss you already.”
“Not too late to pull out.”
I watch as he taps red pepper into the soup. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“I know. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“But there it is.”
He ladles the soup into bowls and brings them to the table, sits across from me. “When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow morning. Early.”
“You packed?”
“Yep.” I tell him about the dresses I borrowed from my sister, and he groans.
“Any idea how long you’ll be gone?” he asks.
“I can’t imagine it taking any longer than a couple of weeks. Three, max.”
“Three weeks can seem like an eternity when you’re working undercover.”
“I know.”
“You sure you’re up to it?”
“I don’t expect it to be easy, but I can handle it.”
He’s looking everywhere except at me. I know it’s because he doesn’t want me to see what’s in his eyes. John Tomasetti might have a good poker face, but there are certain things he can’t hide—not from me. I know him too well. I know anger is one of them.
I’m not hungry, but I pick up my spoon and eat some of the soup anyway. It’s good, but too spicy. “Tomasetti.”
Finally, he looks at me. Dark eyes level. Resentment simmering just beneath the surface, hidden by a thin film of civility.
“I know you don’t want me to do this,” I tell him. “I get that.”
“You’re right. I don’t know what else to say.”
“You could give me your blessing.” I set down my spoon. “You could trust my judgment. My capabilities.”
“I do,” he snaps. “What I don’t trust is this group you’re going into.”
“They’re—”
He cuts me off. “I know. They’re Amish. You keep reminding me of that like they’re a bunch of fucking angels. But guess what, Kate? Somehow a fifteen-year-old girl ended up dead. She got pregnant. Had an abortion. Her body was pumped full of a dangerous narcotic. And she froze to death out in the fucking woods. That’s not to mention the rumors flying about that strange son of a bitch running things.”
“I guess you’ve been doing homework.”
“What do you expect?” he asks, his voice a scant inch away from nasty. “Undercover work is dangerous no matter how you cut it.”
“I’m not worried—”
“Maybe that’s the problem, Kate. You’re not worried. You’re not afraid to put yourself out there. You’re not afraid to lay it on the line. Maybe you should rethink that.”
I stare at him, my heart beating hard in my chest. Temper and uncertainty pull me in opposite directions. “I have to do this,” I tell him.
“Why?”
“Because I’m a cop. Because I’m the best person for the job. Because I’m good at what I do. Because she doesn’t have anyone else to speak for her.”
I’m not exactly sure where that last line came from. A place inside me that remembers what it was like to be a fifteen-year-old Amish girl and not have anyone to turn to when my life was shredded by an act of violence. When everyone—my own family included—swept it under the rug and pretended it never happened. I’m lucky because I survived. Rachel Esh did not.
“I need you behind me on this,” I say, surprised that my voice is shaking. “I don’t want to leave with things unsettled between us.”
“Things are not unsettled.”
“It doesn’t feel that way.”
Frowning, he gets to his feet and rounds the table, pulls me to my feet. “I love you. That’s not going to change. You got that?”
I don’t trust my voice, so I reply with a nod.
“I wouldn’t be doing my due diligence if I didn’t give you shit about this.”
“I got the message,” I tell him.
“When you love a cop, worrying sort of comes with the territory.”
“Same goes.”
“With you”—growling low in his throat, he brushes his mouth against mine—“it’s a full-time job.”
I don’t kiss him back, but something softens inside me. “You didn’t bite off more than you could chew when you got involved with me, did you, Tomasetti?”
“I can handle you just fine.”
“You’re pretty sure of yourself.”
“I am.”
Falling against him, I raise my face to his. “I need you to trust me,” I tell him. “That’s all I ask.”
“I do.” He dips his head and kisses my neck. “Will you do me a favor?”
I loop my arms around him. “Well, now that you’re being nice…”
“Listen to your gut, Kate. Don’t take any chances. Don’t trust anyone.”
“Okay.”
“If you get into trouble, call me.”
“Every chance I get.”
He pulls back and looks down at me. “I mean it, Kate. Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I promise.”
Dinner forgotten, he pulls me tightly against him and lowers his mouth to mine.