Page 63 of The Burning

“Kate’s record and reputation speak for themselves,” Tomasetti interjects. “She’s a good cop. A damn good investigator. And she’s the one person the Amish will talk to. They trust her. That makes her the most valuable resource we’ve got.”

Chambers swivels his head around. “You’re not exactly impartial yourself.”

Tomasetti’s face darkens. It’s subtle, but I see his fingers twitch as if he’s trying not to clench his hands into fists. “If this is about the case—and that’s a big fucking if at this point—Chief Burkholder is the best person for the job and everyone in this room knows it.”

Auggie Brock swallows hard. “We don’t ask any of this lightly, Agent Tomasetti.”

Arms folded across his chest, Tomasetti stares back at him, saying nothing.

Auggie clears his throat and looks at me. “This is just a temporary thing, Kate. When things settle down, I’m sure we’ll need you back to help us out. But until we get a better handle on this, I’d like you to take a step back.”

I fight to maintain self-control. “How big a step are you suggesting, Auggie?” I ask, my voice taut.

“All the way,” Chambers cuts in.

“Limited duty,” Auggie clarifies. “Of course, you’ll still be paid,” he adds hastily. “We just want you to sit things out for a few days. You know, handle the administrative side of things until we can figure out how or if your brother is involved. You understand, don’t you?”

For several minutes, I don’t move. Then I nod. “I understand perfectly,” I say.

Taking my time, I make eye contact with each man in the room. I get to my feet, walk to the door, and go through, not bothering to close it in my wake.

It’s three A.M. and I’m sitting at the table in my quaint farmhouse kitchen, trying not to feel sorry for myself—and failing miserably. This farm—this house—has always been the one place where I don’t allow the pressures of my job to intrude. It is my refuge, my escape, and I try very hard to leave the demons of my job at the door.

I left the station without waiting for Tomasetti. As I pulled away, I saw him emerge from the building, and watch me pass. Though I know I have his support, I was too upset to talk to him. The last thing I want to do is lash out. Or, God forbid, cry.

I’ve just poured two fingers of bourbon into a tumbler when the back door opens. Tomasetti enters with a puff of cold air, his eyes on me, his expression impassive.

His eyes flick to the glass in front of me as he hangs his coat on the rack and he frowns. “Just one glass?”

“I thought two might be overkill,” I tell him.

He doesn’t quite smile as he crosses to the counter, grabs a tumbler from the shelf, and pours. It’s incredibly quiet here at the farm. Tonight, that quiet is so complete I can hear the patter-patter of snowflakes against the window above the sink.

Glass in hand, Tomasetti comes to the table and takes the chair across from me. “Do you want me to pull that knife out of your back?”

“You’re the only person in the world who can make me laugh when I’m completely immersed in agony.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Neil Chambers is an asshole.”

“I noticed.” I shake my head. “The problem is, he makes a valid point.”

“Yes, he does.”

I lift my glass and sip. “I guess I expected more from Auggie and Rasmussen.”

“Don’t be too hard on Auggie,” he says, and frowns. “Chambers recommended he place you on administrative leave.”

“Of course he did,” I mutter, not liking the bitter taste the words leave on my tongue.

“Auggie and Rasmussen were against that and held their ground.”

“Some of it, anyway.”

He shrugs. “So, you’re not officially off the case.”

“Just relegated to desk duty.”

We fall silent, listen to the wind push against the door. The hum of the refrigerator. The hiss and ting of heated air through the HVAC vents.