Page 77 of Fallen

When I’m finished, tears shimmer in Loretta’s eyes. “My mamm always said, good deeds have echoes. Now I know that bad deeds do, too.”

I heard the adage a hundred times growing up and it’s one of the few I believe in with my whole heart. “We’ll probably close the case in the next few days.”

“So it’s over?” Ben asks.

“I think so,” I tell him.

“It will be a good thing to put this behind us.” The Amish man shoves his hands into his pockets. “Thank you for finding the truth, Kate Burkholder. I know the job put before you is a hard one and the Amish don’t always approve. That makes it no less worthy.”

I nod, a little more moved than I should be. Probably because it still matters to me what the Amish think.

Loretta and I watch him walk away. For the span of a full minute, the only sound comes from the kuk-kuk-kuk of a woodpecker followed by the rapid drum of its beak against a tree.

I watch as Loretta walks to the gallon pail of paint and replaces the lid. I think about my conversation with Rhoda and Dan Schwartz. The final moments I spent with Dane Fletcher. The kink in my gut that won’t go away.

Claimed she got pregnant that night. Had a kid.

I pick up the hammer from the stepladder she’s using as a table and hand it to her. “You spent a lot of time with Rachael that last summer she was here in Painters Mill,” I say.

“I did.” She taps down the lid to seal it. “It was one of the best summers of my life.”

“You mentioned before that she changed. In what way?”

She sets down the hammer and straightens. “As strange as it sounds, she became even more forward. It’s like she was in a rush to squeeze in every single experience she could before she became baptized.” She pauses, thoughtful. “Sometimes she was mad at the world. Not too much, but more than … before. Rachael was strong. She didn’t let what happened crush her.”

“Loretta, when exactly did it happen?” I ask. “I mean, with Dane Fletcher?”

“Late summer,” she tells me. “August, I think.”

She was baptized that summer.

Left us in the spring. April, I think.

“Do you know if Rachael was ever ime familye weg?” I ask.

Loretta blinks, her brows knitting as if the question has caught her off-guard. “I don’t think so,” she says slowly. “Rachael would have told me.”

“Would she have told you even if she terminated the pregnancy?”

The Amish woman looks down at the brush in her hand. “I wish I could tell you Rachael would never take the life of an unborn child.” The sigh that follows is saturated with grief. “But she had a way of rationalizing things. If she did something like that, she didn’t tell me. I think she’d have known I would disapprove.”

Typically, at this point in an investigation, once an arrest has been made, the pressure is off and life returns to normal. I spend a few days catching up on the things I neglected over the course of the case, including sleep.

The Schwartz case has been anything but typical.

I’m in my office at the police station; it’s long past time to go home and I’ve done little with regard to putting the case to rest. Instead, I’ve spent the last three hours grinding through the file, reading the dozens of reports and statements, and the like. I’ve been staring at paper for so long I’m no longer even sure what I’m looking for. I’ve scrutinized every crime scene photo and sketch. Viewed the videos. I’ve reread every statement, dismantled every word. Gone over the forensic reports with a fine-tooth comb. I’ve picked through the autopsy report so many times I’m seeing double. My neck hurts. My eyes feel like someone has tossed a handful of ground glass into them. All the while the little voice of reason sits on my shoulder, telling me I’m chasing ghosts.

Indeed.

The wall clock glares at me, reminding me that it’s nine P.M. and I should have been home hours ago. Tomasetti is probably wondering where I am.

“What the hell are you doing, Burkholder?” I mutter.

I look down at my handwritten notes spread out on my desk and I frown.

… likely knew her killer …

… a fair amount of conflict in her life …