Page 38 of The Hidden One

“Temper must run in the family.” He smiles, but his expression isn’t friendly.

“Teenagers aren’t exactly known for restraint,” I tell him.

He looks from the boy to me and frowns. “I’m an inch away from taking him down to juvie.”

I hold his gaze. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t. This family has been through a lot.”

In the too-long pause that follows, sweat breaks out on my back, at my nape. I feel my own temper rise, but I force it back. Finally, Gainer nods at the deputy holding Reuben. “Cut him loose.”

While the deputy unlocks the cuffs, I look past him at the well. “What are you guys looking for?” I ask Gainer.

“It’s all in the warrant.” It’s the standard-issue response when you don’t want to answer. I’ve uttered those very same words myself dozens of times.

“Timing is interesting,” I say. “You get some new information?”

He offers up a wouldn’t-you-like-to-know smirk.

I smile. “I guess you’re not going to cut me any slack, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

Keeping my expression neutral, I focus on the well. The stone wall surrounding the pit is about two feet high, some of which has collapsed. There’s no cover or bucket. The crime scene unit investigator has set up a work light on a scaffolding. A second investigator is in the process of lowering something into the well. A light? A camera? Both?

When the cuffs are off, Reuben looks at the deputy, awkward and sheepish, then at me.

“Let’s go,” I say firmly.

Reuben gapes at me, incredulity flaring in his eyes. “But they can’t—”

“Yes, they can.” I set my hand on his shoulder and squeeze. “They have a warrant.”

A sound of resignation and disappointment hisses between his lips. “I thought you knew how to stand up to people.”

I stop and face him. “There’s a difference between standing up for what’s right and getting yourself thrown into some juvenile detention center for no good reason. You should take a few minutes and think about that.”

He looks at me, nostrils flaring, mouth taut. At that moment, he looks so much like Jacob when he was that age that my chest aches.

“Go inside,” I tell him. “Ask your mamm to make coffee. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Without a word, he turns and starts for the house.

I linger on the periphery of the scene. Twice, I’m told to back away and keep my distance. Twice, I slowly work my way back, but I can’t get close enough to see what they’re doing. Someone brought in a generator. The roar of the engine makes it difficult to hear. Despite the work lights, there’s not enough light to see. I talk to a couple of deputies, one of whom tells me they sent someone into the hole and that he’s encountered water. They’re being tight-lipped about what they’re looking for. Whatever it is, it’s got them wound up. It chafes to be left in the dark.

Dawn spreads pink and gray across the eastern horizon when I spot the deputy I met yesterday at the old Stoltzfus place. I search my memory for his name. Kris Vance. He’s brought coffee for his peers, and both arms are laden with cardboard trays containing to-go cups. An underling relegated to providing the creature comforts of his higher-ups.

“Need a hand with that?” I ask.

“Ah … better not since you’re…”

“The opposition.”

He laughs. “Right.”

I give him a few minutes to distribute the coffee, then approach him, not getting too close. “You been on duty all night?” I ask.

He nods, sips from his cup. “Pulled a double.”

“Coffee helps.” For the span of several minutes, we watch the deputies mill about.