Page 45 of Breaking Silence

“Tell the social people to leave us alone.”

“Why are you so dead set against living with your uncle?”

He raises his eyes to mine. “My datt didn’t like him. I don’t like him, either.”

Sensing I’m getting only part of the story, I take a calming breath. “You can’t stay here at the farm by yourself.”

“It’s my farm,” he says defiantly. “I know how to care for the livestock. I know how to work the land.”

“I’m sure you can. But you’re only seventeen years old.”

“I’m a man.”

“Legally, you’re still a minor. I have to obey the law.”

“English laws are not for the Amish. I’m not going with him. He is not Amish. Er hot net der glaawe!” He doesn’t keep up the faith.

There’s no translation needed; I’m all too familiar with the phrase. I heard it a thousand times growing up, especially after I’d decided not to join the church.

“I know this is hard,” I tell him.

“You don’t know anything,” he snarls.

I sigh. “I was older than you are, but I lost my parents, too.”

“It’s not the same.”

“You’re right. It’s not the same.” I pause, studying him, trying to figure out how to reach him. “I’m trying to help you, Mose. I’m not your enemy. I just want what’s best for you and your brothers and sister. Children Services—”

“No!” Panic flares in his eyes. “The social people will separate us. They’ll take the farm and leave us with nothing.”

The unspoken nuances of the situation crystallize in my mind, like a tiny puzzle with a thousand pieces flying together to make a picture. One I wish I’d detected before now, because for the first time I realize I’m being manipulated. “This isn’t about whether your uncle is Amish, is it, Mose?”

Refusing to meet my gaze, he digs a trench in the mud with the toe of his work boot.

“This is about your wanting to stay here on the farm with your siblings, isn’t it?”

When he finally raises his eyes to mine, they’re filled with tears. “That’s what my datt would have wanted.”

“Your datt would have wanted an adult to care for you until you’re old enough to care for yourself.”

When he says nothing, I sigh. “Turn around.”

He obeys, and I use my key to unlock the handcuffs. “Children Services is not the bad guy, Mose.”

“They’ll separate us. Take the farm. Datt told us that’s what the Englischers want.”

“I don’t believe that,” I tell him.

“That’s because you’re one of them.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Maybe it’s because I understand so very well. To the Amish, the Englischers—particularly those in the government—are outsiders and not to be trusted. “I won’t let anyone harm you or your brothers and sister,” I say quietly. But I don’t think I’m going to convince him of anything.

His hands curl into fists at his sides. For an instant, I think he’s going to slug me again, and I regret removing the cuffs. Instead, his face screws up and he chokes out a sob. “Don’t break up what’s left of us.” He uses his fist to wipe at the tears. It’s an embarrassed, angry gesture that makes me feel as if I’ve just kicked a puppy. “Please don’t take my brothers and sister away from me. They’re all I have left.”

The statement moves me more than it should. I know better than to get sucked into the plight of these kids. I’m a cop, not a social worker. I have faith that Children Services will do the right thing and place these kids with a good family, at least until Adam Slabaugh is cleared of any suspicion. I know they’ll do their utmost to keep the children together. But I know from experience that sometimes kids fall through the cracks. I’ve seen it happen. What’s right for one family can mean heartache for another.

I set my hand on Mose’s shoulder and squeeze. “Think about what I said, okay?”