Page 84 of Breaking Silence

I blink at him, stunned, and a little bit thrilled. “So I could blackmail you, too?”

“You could, but then I’d have to kill you. That would be a shame, because I really like you.”

We’re staring at each other. He gives me a small smile. I’m keenly aware of his closeness. I smell the lingering remnants of his aftershave, remember all the impressions his body made on mine during the night. “We’ll figure out this relationship thing sooner or later,” I tell him.

For a moment, I think he’s going to say something else. I don’t know what that might be, but I see it in his eyes. And in that instant, I want to hear it more than anything else in the world.

The phone on my night table interrupts, and the moment evaporates. We stare at each other a few seconds longer, not speaking, wanting more time but knowing it’s not to be.

“I’ve got to get that.” Rolling away from him, I grab the phone, put it to my ear. “Burkholder,” I snap, trying to sound as if I’m not in bed, sleeping or otherwise.

“Chief Burkholder, this is Chief Archer from Connersville, Indiana.” He clears his throat. “Sorry to call so early.”

It takes my befuddled brain a moment to place the name. Then my intellect clicks in, and I realize he’s returning my call. Mose had told me his family was from Connersville and I wanted to check out his adoption story. “Thanks for returning my call, Sheriff.”

“Sorry I didn’t call sooner, but I was out of town. Big conference over in Richmond on the meth problem.” He sounds harried, as if he’s back in town and pounding through a whole collection of messages. Mine wasn’t very high on his list, and he’s anxious to move on to the next.

“I’m calling to verify some information about a young man by the name of Moses Slabaugh.”

“Slabaugh…”

“His name would have been Hochstetler. He’s living here in Painters Mill, but he’s originally from Connersville.”

“Yeah, I know that name. Amish folks?”

“That’s right. Mose claims his parents were killed and he was adopted by another family shortly thereafter.”

“I remember that,” the sheriff says. “Hell of a thing. Nice Amish family, too.”

“How long ago did it happen?”

“Oh, gosh, I’d say it’s been ten years now. One of the worst accidents I’ve ever seen.”

In the three years I’ve been the chief of police here in Painters Mill, I’ve investigated one fatal buggy accident. A logging truck from Pennsylvania crossed the yellow line and hit a buggy head-on. It was a triple fatality, and I was first on the scene. The images ran through my head for months.

“We require all buggies to have ‘Slow Moving Vehicle’ signs here in Painters Mill,” I say. “Some of the more conservative families balk, claiming the signs are ornamentation.”

A too-long pause ensues, and I get a prickly sensation on the back of my neck. “Sheriff Archer?”

“The Hochstetlers weren’t killed in a buggy accident,” the sheriff tells me.

The prickly sensation augments to a stabbing suspicion. “Mose told me his parents were killed in a buggy accident.”

“The Hochstetlers died in the manure pit out on their farm. You know, methane gas. I ought to know; I was first on the scene. First damn week of work and I got two dead Amish on my hands.”

His voice fades as the words hit home. The Hochstetlers died in the manure pit out on their farm. I almost can’t believe my ears. All I can think is, Why would Mose lie to me about something like that? He was seven years old at the time. Why would he lie? Muttering a thank-you, I hang up the phone, then sit there, my head reeling.

“What is it?” Tomasetti asks.

I look at him, feeling shell-shocked, and tell him what I learned from Sheriff Archer. “Why would Mose lie about something like that?” I ask.

Tomasetti’s expression is dark. “Because he’s lying about something else,” he says. “Or covering something up.”

“Or both.” My mind spins through the possibilities, and I hate all of them. I don’t want to say aloud what I’m thinking. Of course, I don’t have a choice. As much as I don’t want to confront those possibilities, they’re there, staring me in the face. Until this moment, I’ve been too blind to see them.

“My God, he would have been seven years old,” I say, and another chill runs through me.

Tomasetti nods, knowing what I’m thinking. “We need to get out there.”