On campus, students crisscrossed the grounds making their way to eight a.m. classes. The mood in the air was light as it was only a two-day school week. The college would close Tuesday evening for Thanksgiving. As much as I looked forward to the time off, I didn’t dwell on the holiday. This would be the first year I wouldn’t spend Thanksgiving with my father.
I surprised myself by missing it. I never looked forward to spending Thanksgiving with him and his new family. During the visit, my stepmother Sabrina only spoke to me when she found something lacking, which was often. My father didn’t speak to me at all. This year, my father, my stepmother, and my half brother and half sister were on a cruise off the western coast of Mexico. Their ship may have already left port.
Going home to Cleveland didn’t seem right either. After my father and stepmother moved to California when I fifteen, I lived with my best friend, Tanisha, and her family through the rest of high school. The Greens became the stable family I never had. However, Tanisha was in Milan, Italy, and would be for the next two years teaching English as a second language. Her parents and younger brother invited me to spend Thanksgiving with Mrs. Green’s family in Georgia, but I said I’d rather stay in Appleseed Creek and get some work done. As much as I loved Tee’s family, it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun without her there.
I didn’t know how the Troyers celebrated Thanksgiving or what their plans were. I tried to work up the courage to ask. How pathetic would it be to invite myself to their Thanksgiving gathering? I didn’t even know if, not being Amish, I could be included. What if it was some kind of church-related holiday for the Amish? If that were the case, Timothy and Becky would also be excluded.
Then there was the issue of Isaac Glick’s wedding, which would be held on Thanksgiving Day. Would the Troyers attend? I doubted Becky would go. She wouldn’t want to, nor would she be welcomed.
I stepped into the computer services office. My media specialist, Jonathan Clark, an African-American with the build of a former athlete, sat across the conference table from Darren Miller, the department’s scrawny, constantly fidgeting programmer in his early twenties. Miller reminded me of a mouse as he scurried around the department from task to task.
Miller fumbled with his computer parts more than usual. The programmer looked like he was receiving electroshock treatment.
I turned to Clark, who rocked back in his office chair. He clicked his mouse on the tabletop as he moved it around his computer screen. “Have you seen the Mount Vernon newspaper?”
“No.”
He pointed to it, neatly folded on the edge of the conference table and as far away from Miller as possible without actually being on the floor. Mount Vernon was the Knox’s county seat and the only town to boast a newspaper. The front page headline read, Appleseed Creek Amish Community Terrorized by Shears.
I arched an eyebrow at Clark.
He moved his mouse around the tabletop and clicked. “Keep reading.”
The article went on to say that four young Amish women had been attacked in the last week. They were jumped from behind and held down by their assailants while someone cut off their long hair. Except for a few minor scrapes and bruises during the attack, there were no other injuries.
Chloe read on.
Haircutting is a serious offense in the Amish community. The Amish believe a woman’s hair is her crown jewel and should not be cut. Appleseed Creek Chief of Police, Greta Rose, says she’s taking this case extremely seriously. Rose said, “For religious reasons, Amish women don’t cut their hair. If anyone attacks them and cuts their hair that can be considered a form of religious persecution and a religiously-motivated hate crime in the court of law.”
I placed the paper back onto the table. “This is awful.” Sadie Hooley came to mind. Had her hair been cut? Is that what the ladies meant when they said she had been attacked?
Miller dropped his wireless mouse on the floor and the battery popped out. He leaned over to pick it up and smacked his head on the edge of the table.
I winced. “Are you okay?”
Tears sprang to the programmer’s eyes, and he jumped up from the table, dropping the mouse onto it and fleeing the office. The mouse sat in pieces on the tabletop.
Clark covered the mouse pieces with his large hand and pulled them toward him like a bear collecting pinecones.
“What’s wrong with Miller? Is he upset by the story?”
Clark snapped the AA battery back into the mouse and replaced the cover. “His cousin was one of the victims.”
I fell into a chair. “His cousin? Miller’s Amish?”
Clark set the mouse beside Miller’s abandoned laptop. “No, but his uncle married an Amish woman. He’s Amish and all of his children are.”
“What’s the name of Miller’s cousin?”
“Leah. He’s spoken of her before, so I think the two are pretty close. You know for Miller to speak about anything other than SQL or C++ is a big deal.”
Now that Clark mentioned it, I’d never heard Miller talk about his family or anything unrelated to Harshberger or computers. I tapped the cover story with my nail. “I understand why he’s so upset by it. This is awful. I’m glad the police are investigating.”
“They are to some extent, but Miller is the only one who will talk to Chief Rose and her crew. The Amish won’t talk to her at all. The powers that be want to settle this within the district.”
The powers that be? The Amish bishop.
I wondered why the chief hadn’t mentioned the attacks Sunday morning when she told Timothy, Becky, and me about Curt and Brock being back in town. A knot formed in my stomach as another thought hit me. Could Curt and Brock be behind the attacks? They were the culprits behind vandalism in the district earlier in the year, which was one of the reasons they ended up in jail. Chief Rose implied they held a grudge against Becky and me. Perhaps they held a grudge against the entire Amish district. Curt, for one, had no use for the Amish.
“Actually,” Clark went on, “Miller called the paper about the attacks. He’s frustrated the Amish aren’t speaking out.”
I pursed my lips. I knew what that was like. During the summer when Becky had been falsely accused of a crime, it had been almost impossible to convince the Amish to tell the police what they knew.
“How did his uncle take Miller talking to the paper?”
Clark shrugged.
I circled the headline with my fingertip. “It says four Amish women were attacked. Who are the other three?”
“I don’t know. You can ask Miller, I guess, but I would give him a minute.” Clark rubbed his head covered in close-cut hair. “You seemed awfully interested. Are you planning to get involved?”
I took a step back. “Involved? Me? Why would I do that?”
A small smile played on his lips. “You were involved in that murder last summer. Almost got yourself killed, if I remember correctly.”
I placed my shoulder bag on the table and removed my coat, hanging it on the hook by the office door. “That situation was completely different. Becky had been involved.”
He shrugged. “If you say so.”
Clark knew me better than I knew myself. If I had no plans to snoop into the haircutting attacks, what had I been doing walking by the Amish Bread Bakery this morning?
I watched the door, counting the minutes until Miller came back into the office.