My throat clenched. “What do you mean you killed Bishop Glick?” Please God, no.
An incoherent sob came from the other end of the call.
“Becky! Listen to me! Tell me what happened.” The computer guys watched me. They must have heard me yell at Becky. I lowered my voice. “I can’t help if you don’t tell me.”
Her voice shook. “I borrowed your car, and—”
“You borrowed my car?” Disbelief filled me.
“I’m sorry!” She was wailing now.
“No, no, it’s fine.” It was nothing close to fine, but I couldn’t let Becky get sidetracked. “Keep talking.”
“I took your car because I had a job interview.”
“An interview?”
“Close to Mount Vernon.”
Mount Vernon was twice the size of Appleseed Creek, and only seven miles away from our little town.
Her voice shook. “I know it was wrong. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I knew you’d be proud of me if I had a job by the time you got home today.”
“What happened?”
“I—I don’t know. I was driving up the big hill on Butler Road, and everything was fine. Then when I came over the crest of the hill the brakes stopped working. I flew down the hill.” She took a deep breath. “A buggy was at the bottom. I couldn’t slow down. I tried to move the car away from the buggy, but the road was too narrow. The impact pushed the buggy into the trees.”
Dear God, not again! The prayer flew through my mind. Images from my mother’s accident started to play in my head: the police photos I wasn’t supposed to have seen, her lying in a hospital bed under a sheet, my father shutting down. Don’t think about it. Focus on Becky.
“Are you okay?” My tone sounded sharper than I’d wanted.
“I’m not hurt—not really. The officer said the car’s airbag and seatbelt saved me.”
A loud voice reverberated on the other end. “Miss, time’s up.”
“I have to go,” Becky said. “Please come.”
“I will. Where are you now?”
“I’m still at the bottom of the hill on Butler Road. I’m in the back of an ambulance.”
“Miss.” The loud voice warned again.
I pulled my purse out of my desk drawer. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Before she hung up, she whispered, “Thank you, Chloe. You are a gut friend.”
I don’t remember what I said to the computer guys when I cancelled our meeting. Whatever it was, I’m sure Joel hadn’t believed it anyway. I stumbled into the staff parking lot looking for my car. My car, my car. I need to get to her. What was I doing? My car wasn’t here.
Lord, help me. Tell me what to do.
Find Timothy.
The familiar sound of hammering came from the barn area. I ran around the building and found Timothy alone, mending the barn doors.
“Timothy!”
His whole face lit up when he saw me running toward him. Just as suddenly, his expression fell. “What’s wrong?”
I tried to catch my breath. “It’s Becky. There’s been an accident. We need to go to her.” My sentences came in short spurts.
“My truck is right over here.” He pointed at his pickup parked on the grass behind the barn. “You can tell me the rest on the way.”
On the drive over to Butler Road, I related to Timothy everything Becky had told me over the phone. He wrung his hands over and over on top of the steering wheel. Did he think this was my fault? That if I’d made Becky go home to her family and Isaac Glick this would never have happened? Did I think that?
I leaned out of the passenger side window. Please Lord, let Becky be okay. Let us all be okay.
Timothy drove the pickup to the top of the big hill on Butler Road. As we crested the top, I saw a bird’s-eye view of the accident. Bishop Glick’s buggy was wrapped around a large sycamore tree. The RAV4 lay on its right side wedged behind the buggy, the hood crunched into an accordion shape. No question the car was totaled. Miraculously, the bishop’s horse stood on the side of the road and didn’t appear hurt. My mind wandered back to my first day at Harshberger when I met the bishop with his fluffy gray beard and welcoming smile.
I felt light-headed, images from my mother’s accident in my mind.
Slowly, Timothy drove down the hill, where four county police cars and two ambulances were parked along the road. A little further away, four Amish buggies had also pulled to the side. Somehow the Amish district already knew about the accident. Timothy parked behind the last buggy. He reached across the front seat and squeezed my elbow. “I’m glad you came.”
I started to say that I was glad he was there too when he added, “My sister will be happy to see you.” He climbed out of the car.
With a heavy heart, I got out of the pickup. The sight before me was too much—the buggy wrapped around the tree, the RAV4 on its side. I pulled my gaze away and focused on the tops of my heels instead, the worst possible footwear choice for visiting the scene of an accident. I’d never wear them again.
Timothy took my elbow and guided me around the cop cars and Amish buggies. “Are you all right?”
I nodded, unable to speak.
Timothy stopped, and I lifted my gaze to see the coroner wheeling a gurney with a body bag on it toward a waiting van. Beyond a bevy of paramedics, a line of Amish men stood along the road, glaring at us. Timothy dropped his hand from my elbow.
A wave of nausea washed over me. It was my mother all over again. Focus, Chloe, focus. Where is Becky? Find Becky.
I hurried over to a young police officer, not much older than Becky. He wore a sober expression, as if he’d seen many accidents like this before. Maybe he had.
“We’re here for Becky Troyer,” I said. “Can we see her?”
“Are you family?”
Timothy joined me. “I’m her brother.”
“You’ll need to talk to the sheriff.” The young deputy pointed to a tall, lean man, probably in his sixties, with gray hair growing in tufts on top of his head. He looked more like someone’s grandfather than a seasoned lawman.
He squinted up at us from his clipboard. “Can I help you?”
“We’d like to see my sister, Becky Troyer. I’m Timothy Troyer.”
The sheriff eyed me. “Who’s this?”
“I’m Chloe Humphrey. Becky called me after the accident.”
“Ah, yes, Chloe. Becky has been asking for you. I’m glad you came. Please, follow me.” He stepped around an officer collecting shards of glass and other evidence.
“How is she?” I asked the sheriff while maneuvering around the officer.
“She’s in a whole mess of trouble.”
I shivered.
Becky stood outside the ambulance’s bay with a silver insulation blanket wrapped around her. Seeing us, she dropped the blanket and ran into her brother’s arms. I glanced back at the Amish men lined up along the road, their bodies rigid, their faces radiating anger.
Timothy walked Becky back to the ambulance’s bay, and together they sat on the edge. Powerlessness overwhelmed me. My thoughts flashed back to Isaac Glick’s friendly eyes. Did he know? How would he deal with this? More than anyone, I knew how an accident like this tore lives apart. I said a silent prayer for him and the entire Glick family.
I prayed for Becky, Timothy, and their family, too. Then I whispered one for myself. I moved to the country for a professional experience and the chance to live the simple life. Right from the beginning, however, my life in Appleseed Creek had been anything but simple.
Timothy said something to his sister. The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going to have to speak English, or I’m not going to let you talk to her at all.”
Timothy met the sheriff’s eyes with a steady blue gaze. “I told her everything would be all right and that God would protect her.”
Becky gazed at me with tearful eyes. A bandage bisected her right eyebrow and her left arm hung in a sling.
Timothy glared at me. “She’s hurt. You said she was fine.”
I took a step back. “She told me she wasn’t hurt.”
“Considering what could have happened, she’s in good shape.” The sheriff’s voice was calm. “She’s lucky to be alive.”
“It was not luck.” Timothy studied me. “You bought an unsafe car.”
My face grew hot. He had no idea how his words cut me. I had been obsessed with car safety ever since my mother’s accident. “No, I had the car checked before I bought it.” I clenched my hand. “I drove it all the way to Appleseed Creek from Cleveland. There was nothing wrong with the car.”
Timothy frowned.
“The county forensic mechanic will inspect it in his lab, and he will determine how safe the car was before the accident,” the sheriff said.
Did Timothy blame me for what happened? Would this be like my father all over again? My father blamed me for my mother’s accident. I couldn’t bear to have another life on my conscience.
Becky. Focus on Becky. She needs you.
I bit the inside of my lip. “Sheriff, what’s going to happen to Becky?”
“She drove without a license. She will be charged with that. There will be a fine and community service, and her chances of earning a driver’s license in the foreseeable future are slim.”
“What about the crash?” I asked.
He sighed and ran a hand along the side of his face. “If it’s proven that she was at fault, she’ll be charged with vehicular homicide, which is a first degree felony. If she’s lucky, vehicular manslaughter, which is a first degree misdemeanor. There would be a trial, and she could do prison time.”
Dizziness threatened to overtake me. “Even if it was an accident?”
“Accident or no accident. A human life was taken and that’s a crime.” The sheriff scrutinized the Amish men along the road.
Becky buried her head in her brother’s chest and cried deep, body-wracking sobs. Despite the humid summer air, my body shivered.
“Miss Troyer, it’s time to go,” the sheriff said. He put his hand on her arm.
Timothy eyed him. “Where are you taking her?”
“The paramedics checked her out here, but we’ll take her to the hospital for a more thorough exam.”
“Then what?” I asked.
“I’ll have to take her to the station to be booked.”
“You mean arrest her?” Timothy’s mouth fell open and he pulled Becky closer to him.
Becky clung to her brother.
The sheriff nodded, his face grim. “I suggest you get your sister a good lawyer.”