Page 48 of The Burning

“What about your family? Do any of them know what was happening?”

As if realizing where I’m going with this line of questioning, she sighs. “We don’t speak of such things.”

I switch gears, go at her fast and hard. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re in a relationship with Lester Yoder?”

She opens her mouth, makes a sound that resembles a dog choking on a chicken bone. “Because it’s a private thing,” she says.

“Last time I was here, I specifically asked you if you were involved with anyone.”

She shakes her head. “My seeing Lester so soon would have been condemned. You were Amish once. You know how it is.”

“How long have you been involved?”

Her body seems to sag and when she raises her gaze to mine, misery swims in her eyes. “Seven months now. He’s a widower, you know. Going on two years for him.”

Before the divorce. “Is it a sexual relationship?”

I don’t miss the color that climbs up her neck and enters her cheeks. “Not at first.” She lowers her eyes to the tabletop. “I was having so much trouble. With Milan, you know. Lester caught me crying one morning. I had a cut lip. Milan had smacked me a good one and left the house. I was out in the barn so the kids wouldn’t see, and Lester came over to borrow that old crosscut saw.”

“What did you tell him?”

She tightens her mouth as if she doesn’t want to answer. But she knows she doesn’t have a choice. “He saw the cut, asked me about it, and everything just poured out. I confided in him and … over the next few weeks … one thing led to another.”

“Is Lester protective of you?”

Her eyes narrow. “Not particularly.”

“Did he have anything to do with Milan’s death?”

“Oh, dear Lord, no!” She slaps a hand over her mouth, a sound of distress escaping. “You can’t possibly think such a thing. The man is kind and wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

“Where were you the night your ex-husband was killed?” I ask.

“Here,” she says. “With the kids. Like always.”

Finishing the last of my coffee, I dig into my coat pocket for my card and write my cell phone number on the back. “If you think of anything else, will you call me?”

She stares at me a moment, then motions toward the door. “I think we’re finished here.”

I’m mulling my exchange with Bertha Swanz and nearly to the station when Sheriff Mike Rasmussen calls. I know the instant I hear his voice that the news isn’t good.

“You need to come in,” he tells me.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Kate, I got a witness here claiming your brother had some kind of altercation with Swanz four days before Swanz was killed.”

For the span of several heartbeats, I’m so taken aback that I can’t find my voice. I just talked to Jacob and he didn’t mention an argument.

“Are you sure about that?” I ask.

“I’m sure, damn it.”

“Who’s the witness?”

“A neighbor,” he tells me. “Guy by the name of Jim Bogart.”

Something sinks inside me, a rock swiveling down to the bottom of a deep lake. I’ve arrested Jim Bogart twice for OVI. The second time, he caught a conviction, went to jail, paid a massive fine, and lost his driver’s license for a year.