Page 82 of Fallen

I knew Rachael Schwartz when she was a kid. I’d secretly admired her pluck. Though she was younger than me, I’d looked at her as a kindred soul. How many times did she get herself into some situation that required help while on my watch? When she was six, I rescued her when she climbed a tree and couldn’t get down. Then there was the day she rolled down the hill in that steel drum and ended up in the creek. Later, I saw her get into a couple of fights, which goes against every Amish tenet I can think of.

Rachael was a purveyor of chaos, invariably in pursuit of some grand adventure. When she went down the slide, she didn’t go feetfirst. She went headfirst, the faster the better, with no regard for safety. She pushed the envelope. Partook in activities that weren’t quite safe. She wasn’t a bad child, but she was different from the other Amish kids.

Fannie is twelve years old. Rachael left Painters Mill about twelve years ago. The timing is spot-on. I think of the parallels between Fannie Bontrager and Rachael Schwartz, and the possibilities chill me despite the sweat that’s broken out on the back of my neck.

She’s not the first girl we’ve known who’s in love with adventure, now, is she? Should have been born a boy, that one.

Rhoda Schwartz’s words reverberate in my head.

Sick with something akin to dread, I dig through the papers in front of me, pull my incident report from the night Dane Fletcher took his life, and read.

Claimed she got pregnant that night. Had a kid.

What if Rachael Schwartz hadn’t been lying—at least about that part of it? What if she had gotten pregnant the night Fletcher assaulted her? I’d assumed he paid the blackmail money because she threatened to go public with the assault. What if the blackmail was about something else? A child born out of an act of violence?

The questions don’t stop there. In fact, the most excruciating questions have yet to be posed. Is it possible Fannie Bontrager is Rachael’s child?

In case you’re thinking about going all batshit … don’t forget I got that insurance policy. Anything unsavory happens and presto! Out comes the proof.

I think about Fannie, riding the horse as well or better than any boy, breaking her arm in a fall off a windmill. A pattern of similar behaviors.

She’s not the first girl we’ve known who’s in love with adventure …

It’s not a cohesive theory. Far from it. There’s too much conjecture. Too many loose ends, none of which ever quite meet. Most importantly, and never far from mind, is the fact that an innocent child lies at the heart of it. Parents and grandparents are involved, their lives and reputations hang in the balance.

“What did you do?” I whisper, not quite sure who I’m addressing.

How does all of this affect my case? If my suspicions are correct, how much does Ben Bontrager know? And how is it that Loretta and Ben Bontrager raised the girl as their own with no questions asked? I don’t dare put into words the thoughts crowding into my brain.

Movement at the door yanks a gasp from my throat. Tomasetti stands in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed at his chest, hair mussed, frowning.

“You’ve been busy,” he says.

I look down at the papers and reports and notes strewn about the table and floor. I’m aware of how I must look. Exhausted. Fixated. “Dane Fletcher didn’t kill Rachael Schwartz.”

“Why am I not surprised to hear you say that?” Despite the frustration evident on his face, his voice is kind.

“I could use a sounding board,” I tell him.

“I’ll make coffee.”

A few minutes later, he’s sitting across from me, nursing a cup of dark roast, looking at me over the rim. “All right, Chief,” he says. “Hit me with your best shot.”

I lay out my theory, holes and all, struggling with every word because I’m not sure of any of it.

“Rachael Schwartz and Fannie Bontrager don’t share any physical characteristics,” I say. “They do, however, share a psychological trait that could be even more important.”

“Like what?” he asks.

“A predilection for reckless behavior. For breaking the rules, the norms set forth by the adults in their lives.”

“I think the official term for that is ‘being a kid,’” he says.

I’m talking too fast, stumbling over the words because I’m attempting to explain something I’m not well versed on. “There’s a difference.” I take a breath, slow down, and tell him about some of the behaviors I witnessed in Rachael Schwartz when she was a kid.

“You’re asserting that behavior carried over to adulthood.” He’s listening now, but skepticism rings hard in his voice.

“What if this … propensity for thrill seeking is hereditary?” I ask. “Fannie Bontrager displays some of the same tendencies.” I tell him about her riding the horse with such utter confidence. The broken arm.