Page 68 of The Hidden One

He raises his brows. “Then what?”

“What if Ananias Stoltzfus wasn’t who he claimed to be?” Even to me the notion sounds far-fetched. Unlikely at best, conspiratorial at worst.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says.

“There are a lot of things about Ananias and Mia Stoltzfus that don’t mesh with their being Amish, certainly not with his being a bishop,” I say. “I’ve been told his wife was from Germany. She committed suicide in a Lutheran church. She asked the pastor for absolution. The couple spoke Deitsch, but with an accent. Ananias messed up his preaching, not once but several times. He beat a man nearly to death with a walking stick. Jonas, none of those things are the actions of an Amish person.”

He blinks at me. “Then who is he?”

I ponder the question a moment. “I need to know if there’s anyone who knew Ananias or Mia. Even if it’s someone who’s moved away. Or elderly. Is there anyone I can talk to?”

“I don’t know of anyone else. Ananias was old and all of this happened eighteen years ago.” His expression turns troubled again. “Even if we discover he was not Amish or who he said he was, how does that help us find the person who killed him?”

“Maybe it was someone from his past or somehow related to his past. Maybe he has a history we don’t know about.”

Thoughts churning, we sip our tea in silence for a few minutes.

“So what’s next?” he asks.

I shrug. “I put a call in to Minnesota,” I tell him. “I’m waiting for a call back. Maybe someone there knows or remembers something about the Stoltzfuses or their past.”

He nods, staring down at the glass sweating on the table in front of him. “Maybe we’ve reached a dead end.”

Seeing the stress etched into his features, the circles beneath his eyes, I’m reminded of how much he has at stake. His freedom. His business. His family. His life.

“Not yet,” I tell him.

When he raises his gaze to mine, it’s disconsolate. “Maybe my going to jail is part of God’s plan.”

“That’s bullshit.” I soften the words with a half smile.

“You’ve done more than I would have asked, Katie. You’re away from home. Your family. You’ve been hurt. I can’t ask you to stay on. Or do more than you already have. We’ve reached the end of our options. Maybe you should just go home. Forget about this mess and get back to your life.”

“There’s only one problem with that,” I tell him.

He raises his brows in question.

“I’m not a quitter. You should know that about me. I can’t abide injustice. I can’t abide a killer thinking he beat the system. I sure as hell won’t tolerate an innocent man going to jail for something he didn’t do.”

He looks down at the glass, his jaw working, saying nothing.

In that moment a hundred memories assail me. The mess I’d made of my life the last summer we were together. The intensity of the feelings we shared. The tumult of our relationship. The mistakes, most of them mine. Everything that happened between us—both good and bad—in the final days before he left.

“Last time I was here,” I say quietly, “you mentioned the elephant in the room. I didn’t let you finish.”

“Probably a good call on your part.” He smiles, but it’s for my benefit. There’s a profound sadness in his eyes he can’t hide. He shrugs. “Ancient history.”

I smile, too, and I’m surprised to feel that same sadness reach into my chest and twist. “Maybe ‘ancient’ isn’t quite the right word.”

We stare at each other, unspeaking, and yet we’re communicating clearly and in a way that speaks of a closeness the years haven’t erased.

“I’m sorry for what happened,” I tell him. “I never got to tell you that.”

The history between us is the last topic I want to revisit, ancient or not. But I’m a far cry from the confused and rebellious girl I was. The one that was in love and didn’t have the slightest clue how to handle it or what it meant.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says.

“Maybe. But I knew better. I knew what I was doing. I knew it was a mistake. That it was serious. I knew you would be blamed for all of it. You got into a lot of trouble.”