“This might be tough to swallow, but I’m not wrong,” Chambers argues.

  Rasmussen sighs. “Kate, Neil makes a valid point.”

  “I don’t disagree with him,” I admit. “That said, none of this has been verified. I don’t believe we’ve reached the point in which I need to recuse myself from this case.”

  The sheriff turns his attention to Chambers. “She’s got a spotless reputation. She has a good working relationship with the community as well as the local Amish. They trust her. That alone makes her uniquely valuable to this investigation.”

  “A good investigator is a good investigator,” he says. “Whether they’re dealing with the Amish or not.”

  Frowning, I lean back in the chair, and cross my arms in front of me.

  “Let me put it this way,” Rasmussen begins, with uncharacteristic testiness. “You show up at an Amish farm with questions about murder and you’re going to get stonewalled so fast your head will spin.”

  Chambers all but rolls his eyes.

  “Kate’s a good chief and one of the best investigators I know,” Rasmussen maintains. “I trust her. And we need her.”

  “Thanks for your vote of confidence, Mike, but any decision about my continuing to work on this case falls to Mayor Brock.” I get to my feet, drill Chambers with a glare. “In the interim, I think all of us would be better served if we concentrated on the case.”

  Temper flashes in the agent’s eyes.

  Before he can respond, I reach for the intercom box in the center of the table. “Lois?”

  “Yeah, Chief?”

  “Can you send Mr. Bogart back here to the war room?”

  “You got it.”

  Chambers sits up straighter. “What are you doing?”

  “I’d like to hear from the witness,” I say, and then turn my attention to Sheriff Rasmussen. “Since Agent Chambers is under the impression that I’m too personally involved, would you like to do the honors?”

  He nods. “Sure.”

  Chambers mutters something beneath his breath.

  Not quite comfortable with having relegated myself to a backseat position, I pull out my notebook.

  A knock sounds and the door swings open. Jim Bogart stands at the threshold looking a lot less cocky than he had out in the reception area. He’s fifty-two years old, with a salt-and-pepper goatee and the burly build of a man who’s spent most of his life doing physical labor.

  “Hi, Jim.” Rasmussen motions him into the chair nearest the door. “Come on in. We appreciate your coming forward today.”

  Bogart eyes me warily as he slides into the chair. I stare back at him, keeping my expression as neutral as I can manage.

  “I understand you have some information for us about the Milan Swanz case,” the sheriff begins. “Can you tell us what you witnessed between Jacob Burkholder and Milan Swanz?”

  The man scoots closer to the table. “Well, Swanz was putting up a cross fence near where my property borders Jacob Burkholder’s place. My barn is close to where Swanz was working that day. I was on the second level, cleaning out my feed room. I heard an argument so I went to the window.” Looking pleased with himself, he sets his gaze on me and pauses with drama. “Sure enough, Burkholder was out there arguing with Swanz.”

  “What day was that?” the sheriff asks.

  “Five days ago,” he says. “About two in the afternoon.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “I missed some of it. By the time I got to the window, Burkholder was all over Swanz, yelling at him. I think he said something about the bishop.” He shakes his head. “Let me tell you something, Burkholder was pissed. I swear I never seen an Amish guy so mad. I’ve lived in Holmes County my whole life and never heard any of them so much as raise their voice. I thought these two were going to come to blows.”

  “Did it get physical?” Rasmussen asks.

  “Didn’t see it if they did.”

  “Anybody get threatened?” Chambers asks.

  “Not that I could hear,” Bogart replies.

  “Was anyone else present?” This from the sheriff.

  “Just them two. And me.”

  Dread hovers over me as I write all of it down.

  “How long did the argument last?” Rasmussen asks.

  “Just a few minutes,” Bogart replies. “Like I said, I missed the first part of it. But they were yelling their heads off.”

  The sheriff continues. “What happened next?”

  “Burkholder jabbed his thumb toward the house and ordered Swanz off his property. We’re talking foaming-at-the-mouth pissed. Swanz was cussing like a damn truck driver. Next thing I know, Burkholder tore the fence stretcher off the end post. For a second, I thought he was going to slug Swanz with it. Instead, he threw it on the ground. He told Swanz to get off his property and never come back. And Swanz ran.”

  Chambers poses the next question. “What made you decide to report it?”

  “I didn’t think too much of it until I heard what happened to Swanz. At that point I thought ‘Oh shit’ and made the call.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Sheriff Rasmussen and I are sitting at the table in the war room. Chambers left without commentary, but I know he’ll be back. People like Chambers don’t go away easily and usually don’t go of their own accord. The only sound comes from the hum of the ceiling lights and a not-quite-comfortable silence that’s as encompassing and cold as ice on a winter lake.

  “Well, that was a clusterfuck,” the sheriff says.

  “Which part?” I ask.

  He sighs. “All of it.”

  I nod, fingers of unease walking up my spine. The last thing I want to do is recuse myself from the case. The reality that I may have no choice in the matter sits like acid in my stomach. “Mike, do you think I need to sit this one out?”

  “That’s not my decision to make.”

  “That’s not what I asked you.”

  “All I can tell you at this point, Kate, is that if your brother is involved, even in a peripheral way, you’re walking a fine line.”

  “Have you talked to Auggie about it?” I ask, referring to the mayor, who is officially my boss.

  His frown deepens. “That’s out of my bailiwick.”

  “Has Chambers talked to him?”

  “I don’t know.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw, looks at me over the tops of his fingers. “I think that’s something we need to be prepared for.”

  “Prepared for what?” I ask.

  “You know as well as I do that Chambers made some valid points. We can’t ignore that. I’m not saying I agree with everything he said. What I am saying is that we need to keep the public eye in mind and be transparent about what we’re doing.”

  A dozen questions dangle on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t voice them. I already know what the answer is. What he’s going to say. I also know that once things are said, they can’t be taken back.

  I look at Rasmussen, really look at him, and I let down my defenses, let him see what’s really there, that I’m speaking from the heart. “We’ve known each other how long, Mike? Eight? Nine years?”

  “We’ve known each other too long to be having this conversation,” he mutters.

  “Mistrust is the kiss of death when you’re a cop.”

  “This is not a matter of trust.”

  I nod, but I’m aware of the tinge of doubt tweaking my chest, and it hurts a hell of a lot more than I want to admit. “I need to speak to my brother.”

  Rasmussen groans. “You know that’s not a good idea, right?”

  “I also know that he won’t talk to you. He sure as hell won’t talk to Chambers.”

  “I hate to say this, Kate, but your talking to Jacob at this juncture is going to be a problem. For him. For all of us.”

  “Is he a suspect?”

  “He just became a person of interest.”

  “He didn’t murder Swanz.”

  “Are you saying that as his sister, Kate? Or a cop?”

  “Both,” I tell him. “One is not mutually exclusive of the other.”

  He sighs unhappily. “What do you suggest?”

  “Let me do my job.”

  “If you’re asking for my blessing, it’s not going to happen. I’m sorry.”

  I ignore the quicksilver twist of pain in my chest. “You know as well as I do that I’ve got a better chance than you or Chambers or anyone else of getting the truth about what happened between my brother and Swanz.”

  The friendliness falls away and his gaze grips mine. “You want a friendly word of advice, Kate?”

  I stare back at him, my heart beating fast, an uncomfortable knot forming in my chest.

  “If you go talk to your brother, I don’t want to know about it.” Eyes never leaving mine, he leans back in his chair. “If allegations of wrongdoing come to a head and the shit hits the fan, you’re on your own. You got that?”

  “I got it.” Rising, I push the chair up to the table and leave the room.

  CHAPTER 14

  I barely notice the snow-covered field or the cattle huddled at the round bale of hay as I zip up the lane of my brother’s farm. I’ve relived my meeting with Rasmussen and Chambers a dozen times during the short drive; I’ve picked it apart. Analyzed what was said. Critiqued my every response. None of what’s happened sits well. The one thing I keep coming back to is the thin line between right and wrong and how easily that line can be blurred. On a professional level, I’m keenly aware that I’m not helping matters. On a personal level, it hurts that Mike Rasmussen, whom I’ve always considered a friend, waffled when it came to supporting me.

  The pain of that pounds hard in my chest as I park adjacent the chicken coop and get out. The door to the barn stands open a few feet. Hoping to catch Jacob alone, I head that way.

  I find him in one of the horse stalls, mucking. I watch him work for a moment, remembering that I did the same chore hundreds of times as a girl and that once upon a time—before the summer when Daniel Lapp tore apart our lives—Jacob and I were as close as a brother and sister could be.

  “Some things never change,” I say.

  Straightening, he looks at me, pushes up the brim of his hat with a gloved hand, and smiles. For an instant he looks so much like the brother I’d once idolized that a pang tolls in my heart.

  “You were always better at this than me,” he says.

  “I was happy to pass the torch.”

  He goes back to work and for a few minutes, we simply enjoy the moment, being in each other’s company, the earthy smells of the barn, content to remember without all the complications of our adult lives.

  “I need to know what happened between you and Milan Swanz,” I say.

  The pitchfork freezes mid-toss; then he empties the tines and scowls at me as if he has no idea what I’m talking about. “I told you,” he says. “Milan did some work for me. On that fence at the side of the property. I paid him. That was the end of it.”

  “I know you argued with him, Jacob. I know it was heated. I need you to tell me what that was about.”

  He stares at me as if trying to figure out how I could possibly know, and how I have the gall to ask him about it.

  “A witness came forward,” I tell him. “He overheard the argument. He saw you with Swanz. In fact, he went to BCI after I spoke to you, and he’s claiming I’m protecting you. I need you to come clean and tell me what happened.”

  It takes a lot to anger my brother. Not because he’s easygoing, but because he’s good at keeping all those un-Amish-like emotions tucked away and locked down tight. In all my thirty-six years, I’ve only seen him truly angry a handful of times. As I stand in the aisle and look at him through the stall door, I see that temper peek out at me.

  Without speaking, he sets the pitchfork against the stall divider and approaches me. “I’m sorry this has caused you trouble with your police work,” he says. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. But I’ll not speak of what happened to you or anyone else.”

  “You don’t have a choice,” I tell him. “I don’t have a choice but to ask.”

  “My argument with Swanz has nothing to do with what happened to him.”

  “That’s not a good enough answer.”

  “It’s going to have to do.”

  He tries to brush past me, but I reach out and grasp his arm. “Jacob, Milan Swanz is dead. You argued with him just four days before his death. Do you have any idea how that looks?”

  “I don’t care what the English think,” he snaps.

  “What about the police?” I say with equal vehemence.

  He looks down at the place where my hand grasps his biceps through his coat. “I had nothing to do with Swanz’s death.”

  “I know you didn’t, damn it!” I release him with a little too much force, giving him a small shove in the process. “What I don’t understand is why you lied to me. What are you hiding?”

  He looks away, the muscles in his jaws working, as if he’s grinding his teeth. “I think you should leave.”

  “I’m not leaving until you tell me what the hell is going on.”

  Stepping away, he picks up the pitchfork and goes back to the wheelbarrow. For the first time he looks upset in a way I didn’t expect. “I can’t talk to you about this, Katie.”

  “About what?” I snap. “What happened? If you have nothing to hide, why can’t you talk to me?”

  Tightening his mouth, he forks shavings, shakes off the excess, and dumps the manure in the wheelbarrow.

  “Are you protecting someone?” I ask.

  No response.

  Not giving myself time to debate, I stride to him, take the pitchfork from his hands. He resists and for an instant we struggle for possession. Finally, I yank it from his hands, swivel, and throw it like a spear to the end of the aisle.

  When I turn back to him, I’m breathing hard. Not from the physical exertion, but because I’m an inch away from losing my temper. “Talk to me,” I say.

  He looks down at his boots, shakes his head. “There are some things best left unsaid. You know that. Some things are … private and should stay that way.”

  “Jacob, if the police come for you, I can’t protect you.”

  “I don’t need your protection.”

  “You just became a person of interest in a murder case. That’s not to mention there’s a killer on the loose in this town,” I hiss. “I saw Swanz’s body. I know what he’s capable of. If he takes another life, part of it will be on you.”

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, he closes his eyes, then lets out a long, pained breath. Misery suffuses his expression and in that moment I know whatever he’s holding inside him isn’t about him, but someone he loves.

  “Who are you protecting?” I ask.

  “It’s … James,” he says after a moment.

  I blink at him, surprised. “James?” His eleven-year-old son. My nephew. I don’t know the boy as well as I should; we’re not close. What I do know about him is that he’s a sweet kid with freckles on his nose and puppy-dog eyes. He’s got a contagious grin and a happy-go-lucky personality that I’ve loved since the moment I laid eyes on him.

  “James.” Stupidly, I repeat the name and I feel myself bracing. Not as a cop. But a woman who knows too much about the world. And an aunt who knows that what comes next is going to hurt.

  “What happened to him?” I ask.

  Jacob’s expression goes dark. Grimacing, he looks down at the ground. Then he lowers his head, runs his hands over his face. “James wanted to help with the fence. When Swanz was here. He likes working with his hands, you know, like all boys do. So I gave him my pliers. Some T-post clips. And I told him to help Swanz and work hard.”

  I nod.

  My brother raises his head, meets my gaze. “They worked on the fence for two days. The second afternoon, James didn’t come in for supper.” He stops speaking as if he’s run out of breath. An uncomfortable moment ensues as he struggles for composure. “They’d been working over by the old barn that day. When I went out to get him, there was no one there. They were nowhere in sight. But Swanz’s car was still parked in the drive.” His jaw goes taut. “I went to the barn. Found them in the loft.”

  The words hit me like a volley of punches. Involuntarily, I step back, press my hand to my abdomen. I feel sick inside. Outraged. Part of me doesn’t want to hear the rest. I don’t have a choice but to ask anyway. “Jacob … did he…” I can’t finish.

  “No.” Jacob shakes his head. “Not that. But, Katie, I think if I hadn’t gone out there when I did, something bad would have happened.”

  “James is okay?”

  “He’s eleven years old. He’s innocent. He was … upset. Embarrassed and confused. He’s a smart boy. He knew everything was wrong.”

  “And Swanz?”

  “He got down the steps before I could stop him. But I followed, caught up with him over by the fence. Right next to my neighbor’s property.” He frowns, letting me know he’s aware of who the unnamed “witness” is. “I haven’t struck another human being since I was a boy myself. It’s not our way. It’s not my way.” He shrugs. “It’s certainly not something I want my son to see. I almost went after Swanz, but God reminded me it was wrong.”

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “We argued. I told him I was going to go to the bishop and tell him everything. Then I paid him. I ordered him off my property. Told him not to come back. And he left.”

  I think of the story the witness described, acknowledge that the circumstances Jacob laid out match, and I utter a silent prayer because I believe him.

  We fall silent. The only sound comes from the cooing of a pigeon in the rafters, and the hum of wind coming through the door.

  “Did you go to the bishop?” I ask.

  “I went that evening.”

  “What did the bishop say?”

  “He listened mostly, but I could tell he was troubled.”

  I nod. “Jacob, I know you didn’t murder Swanz. But I have to ask. Were you involved in his death in any way?”

  “No,” he says.