Page 83 of Rage

She looks away as she slips her feet back into her shoes. “A couple months.”

“Did you quit?”

“Of course I quit.” Without looking at me she carries the clock to the kitchen, sets it on the table, and runs her finger over its face.

“It’s beautiful,” I say.

“It’s an old thing,” she murmurs. “Grohs-mammi loved it. Gave it to me before she died. She knew I’d take care of it. I couldn’t bear the thought of it being left in this house.”

“So, you left the Amish for a while?” I ask.

“I was a silly teenager. On rumspringa, you know.” The laugh that follows embodies the regret of a woman long past her teenage years. “It was a mistake.”

I’m still thinking about Yutzy. “How did you meet Samuel?”

She continues to stare at the clock, wipes at a smudge with her fingers. “I met him at a rager.”

Same as Wilma Borntrager …

“Did you know Aaron Shetler?” I ask.

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Rose, did Samuel have any enemies that you know of?” I ask.

“I don’t know.” Picking up the clock, she strides to the door only to realize she can’t open it because she’s holding the clock.

“When’s the last time you saw Samuel?”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” Muttering beneath her breath, she kicks the door with the toe of her sneaker.

“I’ve got it.” I’m reaching past her to push open the door when I notice the tattoo peeking out of the space between her collar and kapp at her nape. I only catch a glimpse, but it looks like someone’s initials printed in an Old English font.

I open the door. “That’s an interesting tattoo,” I say. “Where’d you get it?”

She goes through the door without answering.

I follow her down the steps and into the backyard. “Rose, can you tell me what was going on in this house?”

“There was nothing going on.”

“Why are there locks on the outside of the bedroom doors?” I ask.

Staring down at the ground, she doesn’t respond.

“Was someone being kept against their will?” I ask.

She hugs the clock more tightly against her. “I have to go.”

I wait, but she doesn’t respond. “Rose, I don’t know if this matters to you, but I used to be Amish.” I switch to Deitsch. “I know what it feels like to walk away from your life. I know it’s not easy.”

She tosses me an angry, defiant look. “You didn’t become a dancer, though, did you?”

“I became a cop.” I offer a smile. “Some people might think that’s worse.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she whispers. “I just want to go home.”

CHAPTER 21