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Just maybe...
Just maybe that would be unethical, a little voice whispered in her head.
Stifling a shiver, Grace adjusted the vent on the dash, glad the officer had turned on the heat before getting back out of his patrol car to talk to the tow truck driver and retrieve her purse from the passenger seat of her car. She plucked at the fabric of her wet pants, eager to get home and change.
When the officer finally climbed behind the steering wheel, he handed her the purse. “Warming up?”
“Thanks. Yeah.”
“Before we go, I want to see if you recall anything else from the accident. Anything else important you haven’t told me?” His intense brown eyes searched her face. She wasn’t ready to talk. Not yet.
Twisting her lips, she shrugged. “Not really.” She pulled on the blanket she was sitting on to smooth out the crease cutting into her thigh. “I’d love to get home and change out of these wet clothes.”
He hesitated a moment then asked, “Where are you staying? Do you have friends or family in Quail Hollow?”
Grace couldn’t resist smiling. This was small-town life. Since he hadn’t met her before, she couldn’t possibly belong in Quail Hollow. And he wasn’t wrong. Grace doubted she’d ever fit in here, regardless of her background. “I’m staying at the bed & breakfast.”
The fluorescent lighting from the gas station overhang lit on the handsome angles of his face. A look of confusion flickered in his eyes. “The Quail Hollow Bed & Breakfast? It’s closed for the season. The owners...” He stopped himself, perhaps realizing it wasn’t prudent for law enforcement to reveal when the residents of their fine town were away on an extended vacation.
“Yes, I know. My sister and Zach are on their honeymoon.”
The officer’s eyes widened, and he pointed at her with a crooked smile. “I knew you looked familiar. It was bugging me. Of course, your last name’s Miller. A lot of Millers live around here.” He put the patrol car in Drive. “Let me get you home.”
“I’d appreciate that.” She turned and watched the driver tow her sister’s smashed-up car away on the back of the flatbed truck. So much for successfully taking care of things while her sister was away. Her stomach bottomed out, and a new worry took hold: it would require writing a lot of articles to pay for the damage. Her sister most likely had insurance, yet repairs still meant an inconvenience to everyone involved.
She pushed the thought aside. The occasional voice crackled over the police radio, interrupting the silence that stretched between her and the officer. Something about a deputy taking their dinner break and something else about Paul King’s cows blocking the road and that someone was sure to have a wreck if the animals weren’t cleared from the road right away. At that, she cut a sideways glance at the officer, who seemed unfazed. “Bet you’re glad you got taxi duty and don’t have to deal with the cows.”
He laughed, a weary sound, as if he had heard it all before. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll be dealing with the cows once I get you home.”
“Are cows blocking the road a regular occurrence around here?” Maybe she could somehow work that into her article about the dark side of Amish life.
“We’ve been after Paul to get his fence repaired. These things take time, I suppose. It’s all part of a slower-paced life.”
Grace snagged her opening. “I heard there was some excitement in town about a month and a half ago.”
The officer seemed to stiffen. He kept his eyes straight ahead on the country road. “That’s the kind of excitement we don’t need or want.”
“I heard there was a big drinking party.” She ran her hand down the strap of her seat belt, choosing her words carefully. “Is it unusual for the Amish and the townies to party together?” She had a hard time imagining her quiet father, who’d grown up Amish, drinking a Budweiser with his buddies out in some field.
The officer made an indecipherable sound. “The Amish and Englisch grow up together in some ways. They overlap in jobs and in the community. It is a small town. It’s not unusual, especially during Rumspringa, for the Amish to test their limits.” The Amish didn’t encourage their youth to misbehave during this period of freedom prior to being baptized, but she understood the theory behind it. The Amish elders wanted their youth to willingly choose to be baptized into the faith after exploring the outside world. Surprisingly, a majority of Amish youth did decide to be baptized. It was a fact that had jumped out at her during her initial research.
Despite being the daughter of Amish parents, Grace had only recently started to research the Amish. There had been a reason she had avoided exploring her past. However, now she wished her father had opened up more about his Amish upbringing. It would make writing this story that much easier. But after her father had left Quail Hollow and the Amish way, bringing his three young daughters with him, he refused to talk about “life before.” Even the good parts. It was all too painful. And how could she blame him, considering the way her mother had died?
Grace plucked a small pebble from her coat. “How is the Amish girl who was in the accident that night?”
“She’s in a coma. Her prognosis is uncertain.” His unemotional tone made it sound like he was reading from a list.
“That’s horrible. And the driver of the truck...” Grace purposely left the sentence open-ended, despite knowing the outcome.
“Died at the scene.” The officer’s grip tightened around the steering wheel, and a muscle worked in his jaw.
His reaction made her realize something for the first time, and her pulse thrummed loudly in her ears. “Were you on duty that night?” She studied his reaction, sensing she was on the verge of learning something fresh she could use in her story. Deep inside, a sense of guilt niggled at her.
Using someone else’s misfortune...
No, she was writing a story that needed to be told. A young man had partied and then recklessly crashed into an Amish wagon, most likely ruining a young woman’s life. Grace’s job was to bring light to stories that needed to be told. And she was good at her job. It allowed her to travel and be financially independent.
He cut her a sideways glance this time, before slowing down and turning into the rutted driveway of the bed & breakfast, which was covered in a fresh layer of snow. He shifted the patrol car into Park and turned to look at her. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a journalist?”
Her stomach felt like she was riding a roller-coaster car that had plunged over a ten-story crest. However, there was nothing fun about this feeling.
Her go-to move was to feign confusion. “I’m...” She slumped back into the passenger seat, rethinking her plan of action. He knew. But how?
“Are you investigating the underage party?” he asked.
Without saying a word, Grace turned and stared up at the bed & breakfast in the darkness. The house gave off a lonely, unwelcoming vibe. She should have left on a light in the kitchen.
“Can you explain this?” The officer pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. It was the note from the anonymous source that she had left on the passenger seat of her sister’s car. The officer must have found it when he retrieved her purse. For a fleeting moment, she wished she could disappear into the vinyl seat.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were meeting someone at the gas station?” Captain Gates pressed. “Don’t you think maybe this note and the accident are related?”
TWO
“Yes, I am a writer. I don’t think the accident had anything to do with my job.” Had it? The words sounded wrong in her ears the minute Grace said them, but she was committed to her denial, because acceptance that someone had tried to hurt her—kill her—would put a serious crimp in her research. The sheriff’s department wasn’t likely to let this go unchecked, and she wasn’t foolish enough to make herself a target.
Grace traced a finger along the armrest on the patrol car door and stared at the house. The house that had once been her grandmother’s hunkered in the winter night like a monstrosity from her past.
“Really?” Grace shifted to face Captain Gates, astonishment etched on his handsome features. “You get a note to meet at the gas station. No one shows up to talk to you, then a truck nearly pins you between the car and the pump. You don’t see the connection?”
“Now that you put it that way.” Grace tended to use humor to deflect. Had she really been that obtuse? No, she had simply shoved the obvious to the back of her mind. She tended to be single-minded in her focus, and she certainly wasn’t going to allow some jerk to deter her from the story. She’d have to be more cautious, that was all.
“This is serious,” the officer said.
Grace unfastened her seat belt. “I’ve dealt with far more dangerous situations covering stories all over the world. I can handle a punk in a truck. Besides, if he wanted to hurt me, he would have. His goal was to scare me.” She didn’t know who she was trying to convince.
“Did he?”
“No, don’t be ridiculous. I mean, I’m not too happy about what happened tonight, but I’m not going anywhere.” She scratched her head under the edge of her winter hat. “I can’t imagine why he wanted to scare me in the first place. I’m trying to get more details about the party the night of the fatal accident. Readers will be fascinated to learn that Amish teens have the same issues as everyone else.”
“Who have you spoken to already?” The officer shifted, and the seat creaked under his weight. She lifted her legs a fraction from the seat, the dampness adding to her ill temper. She didn’t need to be a deputy to follow his train of thought. Someone in Quail Hollow wanted to put an end to her investigation.
“Bishop Yoder wasn’t helpful when I tried to talk to him about the party. He assured me that anyone caught acting in an inappropriate manner would be dealt with accordingly. Then he shooed me along like I was some unwanted flu bug.”
“The Amish prefer to live separate. They’re not going to be receptive to anyone shining a light on something negative like this. Law enforcement and the Amish have a tenuous relationship, too. They deal with us only if they have to. That’s why, when a journalist comes snooping around, it makes our job harder because the Amish shut down.”
“I’m not snooping around.” Grace resented the accusation. “I don’t force anyone to talk to me if they don’t want to. I ask questions. They either answer or they don’t.” She preferred when they did, of course. “I also stopped by the victim’s house,” she continued, laying out the names of all the people she had already tried to talk to.
“Katy Weaver?”
“Yes, her brother answered the door and asked me to leave. Out of respect, I did.”
“Have you tracked down any of the teenagers from town who were at the party?” His tone changed subtly to one of genuine interest.
“Not yet. Any teenagers I’ve met claimed they weren’t there. I had hoped maybe tonight, after getting that note, I’d find out more information.” She wrapped her chapped fingers around the door handle on the passenger side of the patrol car. “Listen, my pants are soaked. I’m freezing. I need to go inside.”
Captain Gates pushed open his door, and the dome light popped on. She shot a glance over her shoulder at him. “You don’t have to walk me to the door. I’m fine.”
“You’re not getting off that easy.” His deep voice rumbled through her. Despite her frustration with the sheriff’s department thus far, she wasn’t sorry Captain Gates was going to escort her to the door. The surroundings were pitch dark in a way that can only happen in the country, far from civilization and light pollution. The memory of the truck barreling toward her flashed in her mind, and renewed dread sprinted up her spine.
The officer’s hand hovered by the small of her back, and the snow crunched under their boots as they crossed the yard. Grace dug out the keys to the bed & breakfast and unlocked the back door leading into a mudroom adjacent to the kitchen. She turned around in the small, dark space to thank him, and was caught off guard when he stepped into the mudroom behind her.
She cleared her throat, debating if she should ask him to leave. “Thank you for the ride home. I’m really tired. I need—”
“Turn on a few lights. Change into dry clothes. We need to talk.”
* * *
Conner made sure the windows and doors were secure on the first floor of the bed & breakfast. After he checked the last window, he turned around, surprised to find Grace watching him from the bottom stair with a determined look on her face. “I’ll be fine. My sister has an alarm system.”
It made sense. Heather Miller, Grace’s sister, had been the target of a vicious stalker almost two years ago. Her ex-husband had escaped prison and found his way to Quail Hollow, where his former wife had hoped to start a new life. Thankfully, U.S. Marshal Zachary Walker had protected her, and duty had turned to love. Now the two of them were on their honeymoon. He wished them all the best. They seemed like a nice couple. He only hoped the challenges of a career in law enforcement didn’t wreak havoc on their marriage like it had on his parents’.
He cleared his throat. “Can’t hurt to check to make sure everything is locked up.”
“Was it, Captain?” He detected a hint of sarcasm in her tone.
He lifted an eyebrow and couldn’t hide his smile. Her cheeks were rosy from the weather. She stared back at him blankly. He could tell she was humoring him.
“Yes, everything was secure. Yet I don’t like the idea of you out here all alone.”
Grace’s lips parted. “You’re kidding me, right? Would you say that to a guy?” She glared at him, skepticism shining in her eyes. “I’m more than capable of taking care of myself. I don’t need some big, strong law enforcement officer to protect me,” she said in a singsong voice.
Conner had to consciously will the smile from his face, not wanting to stoke the flames of her anger. “I didn’t mean to offend you. My job is to keep the residents of Quail Hollow safe. All of its residents, regardless of gender.”
Grace dipped her head and ran a hand across her neck. She had twisted her long brown hair into a messy bun at the back of her head. She had also changed into gray sweatpants and a sweatshirt with the name of a university emblazoned across the front. He remembered the story his father had told him about how Grace’s father had taken his three young daughters away from Quail Hollow after their mother was murdered. How different their lives had turned out. Grace would have never gone to college if she had been baptized into the Amish community. She’d probably be married with a few kids by now.
He shook his head, dismissing the image. “Are you warming up?”
“Yeah, let me throw another log into the woodstove. You said we needed to talk.”
“Yeah.” She opened the door and tossed in another log. The orange embers scattered and a new flame sparked to life. He feared if he offered to help her, she might bite his head off. She seemed the independent sort.
“How old were you when you moved away from Quail Hollow?”
She grabbed a second log and tossed it in. “Three,” she said, without questioning how he knew her background. That seemed par for the course in Quail Hollow, especially since he knew her sister. Grace straightened with her back to him.
“My dad was the sheriff when your mother...” He scrubbed a hand across his face. As hardened as he had become over the years, this felt too personal to casually toss out the word murdered.
Grace slowly turned around. “I didn’t know that. I haven’t done much research on my mom’s death.” She frowned. “I only have vague recollections of her. My memories are a blend of my own and stories told by my oldest sister, Heather. She was six when my mom died.” Then she seemed to mentally shake herself and held out her hand to one of the wooden rocking chairs in front of the wood-burning stove. “Have a seat. What did you want to talk about?”
“What is the focus of the story you’re working on? Why were you meeting someone at the gas station?”
She slowly sat in the rocker next to his and unwound and rewound the fastener in her hair, as if stalling. The skeptic in him wondered if she’d tell him the truth.
She stopped fidgeting with her hair, placed her hands in her lap and angled her body toward him. “My editor asked me to cover the underage party and the fatal accident. The image of buggies lined up and police arresting the underage Amish drinkers has been splashed all over the news. My editor thought it made a fantastic visual. Like two eras intersecting.” She held up her fingers in a square, framing the perfect shot. “Since I was already here recuperating from my surgery—” she shrugged “—it made sense for me to do a more in-depth story.”
“Your surgery?” Then he remembered their conversation at the gas station. “Your appendectomy.”
“Yes.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “I’m fine. I’m still hanging around as a favor to my sister, keeping an eye on the bed & breakfast.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” He tapped his fingers on the arm of the rocking chair, deciding how to phrase his next question. “Did you ever think you’d have a much bigger story if you covered your mother’s murder?”
She closed her eyes and tipped her head back on the chair. “I don’t want to dig into that case. I like to keep my personal and professional lives separate.” She opened her eyes and leaned forward. “Besides, that’s old news.” The haunted look in her eyes suggested otherwise.
Conner tapped his fist lightly on the arm of the rocker. The heat from the stove warmed his skin. “The case still haunts my dad.”
Grace let out an awkward laugh, as if to say, “Yeah, it haunts me, too.”
“I could set up an interview with him if you’d like. It doesn’t mean you have to do the story. Maybe it’d provide some answers.” He wrapped one hand around the other fisted hand and squeezed. “Truth be told, it might do my father some good to see that you turned out all right.” His father often talked about the tormented look in the eyes of the three young Amish girls.
“Has your father ever talked to Heather?”
Conner shook his head. “From what I gather, she’s forgiven the person who murdered your mom and has moved on. I’m guessing that’s not the case with you.” He wanted to ask about the youngest sister, but couldn’t recall her name.
She shook her head quickly, but he wasn’t sure what question she was answering. “My assignment is to write a story on the youth of Quail Hollow. The Amish. The drinking. The accident. Not something that happened almost thirty years ago.” There was a tightness to her voice. “I hope you can understand, Captain Gates.”
“Please, call me Conner. Otherwise I feel like we’re in an interrogation room.” He leaned forward and added, “I don’t mean to add to your pain.”
Grace smiled tightly. “No, not at all. That was a lifetime ago.” She was obviously downplaying her emotions, and he regretted bringing up her mother’s murder. No one ever got over losing their mother at such a young age. He still struggled with losing his mom, and she was still alive. After his parents got divorced, she married someone else and seemed perfectly content with her replacement family, never bothering to return to Quail Hollow.
He felt a quiet connection to this woman. Perhaps it was from remembering the impact her mother’s murder had had on the entire community. Perhaps from the pain radiating from her eyes. He understood pain.
“I’m going to lay it on the line. I don’t want you covering the story because Jason Klein, the young man killed in the accident, is—was—my cousin’s son.”
She sat back and squared her shoulders. “Oh... I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“My cousin and I were like brothers. When Ben, Jason’s father, was deployed with the army last year, he asked me to keep an eye on his son. A teenager needs a male role model, you know? Anyway, Ben was killed in a helicopter crash.”
Grace seemed to stifle a gasp. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” Conner paused a moment, not trusting his voice. “Turns out, I did a lousy job of looking after his son.”
“Kids make their own choices. It’s not your fault.”
“I don’t want this one night—this one stupid, stupid decision—to be what Jason’s forever remembered for. I need you to kill this story.”
* * *
Grace slumped in the rocking chair and pulled her sweatshirt sleeves down over her hands, feeling like someone had punched her in the gut. “Wow, I’m sorry, but—” she bit her lip, considering her options “—I have to do this story. It’s my job. I can’t afford to lose my job.”
Conner stared straight ahead at the woodstove, the flames visible through slots in the door. A muscle worked in his jaw.
“It’s my livelihood. I’ve already begun posting little teasers on my blog about the story. If I don’t follow through, it’ll look bad.” The words poured from her mouth, as if she were trying to convince them both that writing this story was the right thing to do.
When Conner didn’t respond, she added, “I’m sorry for your loss, but what about the Amish girl in the hospital? Who gives her a voice? She’s innocent in all this.” Grace tempered her response out of respect for his loss.
“My cousin’s wife, Anna, is having a terrible time with all this. She lost her husband and now her son. Jason was a good kid who made a horrible decision. More publicity only adds to the pain.”
“He hadn’t been involved with alcohol or drugs before that night?” Grace found her journalistic instincts piqued.
“Off the record?” Conner met her gaze.
“Yeah.”
“A couple weeks before his death, Jason had a few friends over for a bonfire at his house after a big football game. Anna called me, worried that there might be some drinking going on. So I showed up, drove some guys home and Jason dealt with some blowback from that night. Apparently drinking is grounds for suspension from the football team. The star quarterback was one of the guys suspended. They’re a pretty tight group. They weathered the storm and moved on. Kids make mistakes. Most importantly, no one was hurt that night. Anyway...”
The story angles swirled in Grace’s head, making her dizzy. Was she really this insensitive? A good story above all else?
“Jason swore to me he wasn’t drinking at his bonfire. That the other guys brought the alcohol. I had no reason not to believe him. I gave him the riot act, anyway. I thought that’d be enough.” The inflection in his voice spoke of his pain far more than his words. Yelling at his cousin’s son for hosting a drinking party wasn’t enough to stop him from being killed a few weeks later in an accident where he was impaired.
“How do you explain the drugs in his system the night of the crash?” she asked hesitantly.
“I can’t.” Conner pushed up from his rocker and began to pace the small space in front of the stove. “He made a mistake. Must have taken something he didn’t know how to handle. Doesn’t mean he wasn’t a good kid.”
“This isn’t about good kids and bad kids. It’s about making decisions and suffering the consequences. Maybe some other kid will read the story and think twice before experimenting with drugs or alcohol. Perhaps the fact that he was a good kid will make a stronger impression. Show that it only takes one time.” Grace stood and folded her arms across her chest. Heat pumped from the stove, but it barely touched the chill in her bones.
“I’m sorry about your loss,” she continued, “but I’m sure the young Amish girl is a good kid, too.” The fact that she had just met this man stopped her from reaching out, touching his arm, offering him comfort. “I hope you understand that I have a job to do.”
He stopped pacing and stared down at her. “You realize, besides causing Jason’s mother tremendous pain, you’re also making it exceedingly difficult for the sheriff’s department to find out who provided the drugs the night of the party?”
Offended, Grace jerked her head back. “How?”
“The more you go digging around, the harder you’re making it for law enforcement to do the same. The Amish don’t like to be in the spotlight.”