Page 38 of Fallen

Amish decorum urges me to take her up on the offer. Spend a few minutes chatting and getting caught up on things. I should ask about my niece and nephews and all the things happening in their lives. I should make an effort to know her, find some common ground and put an end to the discomfort I experience every time I’m here. Of course, I don’t.

“Nay, dank,” I say.

Had I been one of her Amish brethren, I’d likely get an argument. Or else she’d step onto the porch, take my hand, and usher me inside for a piece of pie that’ll only be good one more day, or the coffee she just made. Not so for me. In all the years that I’ve known her, Irene has never uttered a cross word to me, but we have an understanding. She invites only because she knows I will decline. I don’t know if my brother told her what happened that summer when I was fourteen, but she’s never been comfortable around me and despite her best efforts, it shows.

Relief flashes in her eyes. “Next time then.”

I nod. “Tell the kids hi.”

“I will!” A too-bright smile. “Bye, Katie!”

The screen door slams as I start toward the barn and I shove aside a small pang of hurt. Ahead, the big sliding door stands open a couple of feet. I sidle through, give my eyes a moment to adjust to the dimly lit interior. The clank and pop of metal against metal takes me to a workshop off the main room. I enter to find my brother at the workbench, pounding a piece of steel into submission.

He’s so intent on his work that he doesn’t notice me. His mouth is pulled into a frown, partly from the exertion of the task, partly from what looks like frustration because the steel is refusing to bend to his will.

After a moment, as if sensing my presence, he glances up and does a quick double take. The small sledgehammer in his hand freezes in midair; then he lets go with a final, satisfying blow. Clang!

I put my hands on my hips, present a smile. “Are you beating that piece of steel? Or is the steel beating you?”

“Haven’t decided yet.”

I catch the hint of a smile in his eyes, and I wonder if he’s happy to see me. I wonder if he remembers how things were between us when we were kids. How much I’d looked up to him. If he misses it. I wonder if he realizes he’d once looked at me with affection instead of the standoffishness I see today.

He sets down the hammer. “It’s been a while.”

“I know,” I say. “Too long.”

We stare at each other, sizing each other up, slipping into our respective suits of armor, putting up the defenses we need to get through this. He’s too polite to ask why I’m here, but he knows me too well to assume it’s for a friendly visit.

“I need to talk to you about Rachael Schwartz,” I say.

Jacob is a stoic man. He’s difficult to read and tends to internalize his thoughts and feelings. But I see the impact of the name. A minute quiver runs the length of his body. Suddenly, and uncharacteristically, he can’t meet my gaze. Instead, he looks down at the length of steel, picks it up, puts it back down.

“I heard about what happened to her,” he says.

“I didn’t realize you knew her.”

“I didn’t, really.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

Raising his gaze to mine, he picks up the piece of steel, turns it over, and clangs the hammer against it three times. I watch him work, wait for him to stop, to respond.

After a few minutes, he looks at the steel, gives a small nod and sets it down. “You talked to Bishop Troyer.” It’s a statement, not a question. And it tells me that whatever it was that happened between him and Rachael, he told no one else.

“I’m trying to find out who did that to her, so I went to the bishop.” I pause, struggling to get the words right, failing. “I was surprised to hear your name. I had no idea your paths had ever crossed.” If my revealing my source causes a problem between the two men, they’ll just have to work it out.

“It was a long time ago.” He tosses the piece of steel into an old-fashioned slatted wood crate. “I can tell you it has no bearing on what happened to her.”

“I need to make that judgment, Jacob.”

Taking his time, he lifts a baton-size bolt from another box, uses pliers to pry the nut that’s fused to it with rust. “I confessed.”

“To what?”

He twists the pliers and the nut snaps loose. “It was a private thing.”

I wait.