AMISH COUNTRY SECRETS

Reporter Grace Miller’s Amish hometown seems the perfect place to recuperate from surgery—until a tragedy puts her on the trail of her mother’s long-unsolved murder. Now someone’s set their lethal sights on her, determined to keep the truth behind her mother’s death and a fatal car crash involving local teens hidden. After discovering that Grace is in danger, police captain Conner Gates drops everything to protect her...and help solve the cold case his father could not. But as they delve into the past, can they face down the dangerous foe hiding in plain sight, threatening to turn their blossoming love into a deadly trap?

ALISON STONE lives with her husband of more than twenty years and their four children in Western New York. Besides writing, Alison keeps busy volunteering at her children’s schools, driving her girls to dance and watching her boys race motocross. Alison loves to hear from her readers at Alison@AlisonStone.com. For more information, please visit her website, alisonstone.com. She’s also chatty on Twitter, @alison_stone. Find her on Facebook at Facebook.com/alisonstoneauthor.

Also by Alison Stone

Love Inspired Suspense

Plain Pursuit

Critical Diagnosis

Silver Lake Secrets

Plain Peril

High-Risk Homecoming

Plain Threats

Plain Protector

Plain Cover-Up

Plain Sanctuary

Plain Jeopardy

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Plain Jeopardy

Alison Stone

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08060-6

PLAIN JEOPARDY

© 2018 Alison Stone

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Suddenly, the library basement lights went out.

Frozen in blackness, Grace called out, “Hello, I’m down here.”

A muffled shuffling sent terror pulsing through her veins. She slid along the cabinets, the handles jabbing her side. A rhythmic creaking filled her ears, the sound made louder in the blackness.

“I know you’re down here,” someone whispered.

Tiny pinpricks of fear blanketed Grace’s scalp. She moved closer to the desk, realizing whoever it was had intentionally turned off the lights. Was coming for her.

Her hand found her tote bag on the desk. She reached inside for her phone. She swallowed hard. Remain calm. You’ve been in far scarier situations. Her usual response to those who warned her that her investigation was going to get her into trouble didn’t seem to be doing her much good at this exact moment.

A groan of something heavy being moved cut through the blackness. Grace scrambled under the desk with her phone. A violent whoosh of air sent her hair flying away from her face, and a loud crash exploded in her ears...

Dear Reader,

Welcome back to Quail Hollow, NY. This time we learned about Grace, sister of Heather from Plain Sanctuary. Grace had spent her life traveling, researching and writing about other people’s lives. She avoided looking too deeply into her own life because it was too painful. However, when circumstances forced her to face her fears, she finally found answers, peace of mind and eventually happiness.

Have you ever avoided something only to discover that facing it head-on was the only way to walk through it? I know I have. This is when I’m reminded that I need to trust in God.

When I start writing a new series, like Quail Hollow, I have an idea where I’m going, but sometimes the creative process of writing leads me off in another direction. Deputy Becky Spoth walked onto the page in Plain Jeopardy to help keep Grace safe, and suddenly I knew she needed a story of her own. Please keep an eye out for Becky’s story next from me with Harlequin Love Inspired Suspense.

If you’d like to keep up with my latest news and releases, sign up for my newsletter on my website at www.AlisonStone.com.

I can also be reached on Facebook under Author Alison Stone. You can also email me at Alison@AlisonStone.com or write me the old-fashioned way: Alison Stone, PO Box 333, Buffalo NY 14051.

I enjoy hearing from you.

Live, love, laugh,

Alison Stone

Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.

—John 14:27

To my eldest daughter, Kelsey, as you get ready for your next adventure. I’m very proud of you. May all your dreams come true. Love and kisses.

To Scott and the rest of the gang, love you guys, always and forever.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Dear Reader

Bible Verse

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

ONE

The traction-control light lit up on the dashboard, and Grace Miller clutched the steering wheel tighter. The tires quickly gained purchase on the snowy country road. Phew. Not as icy as she’d feared. All she needed to do was leave a little extra distance between her car and the car in front of hers, which wasn’t too hard to do on the deserted streets of Quail Hollow, New York. Not a lot of cars—or wagons—out after dark. Most people were hunkered down at home doing sane things like watching TV or reading a book, not chasing leads on a story on a snowy night in the Amish community.

Grace reached across and touched the crumpled handwritten note she had tossed onto the passenger seat.

I have info about drinking party. Meet at gas station. Main and Lapp. 8 p.m. Get gas while your there.

She could forgive the writer’s misuse of the word your if it meant she had a new lead on a story that had, so far, produced nothing more than what had already been published in regional papers or played on the local TV stations out of Buffalo.

Grace had been surprised to find the handwritten note taped to the front door of her sister’s bed & breakfast. She wondered why they hadn’t knocked. She had been home alone most of the day, except for the window of time when Eli Stoltz, her sister’s Amish neighbor, stopped by to care for the horses.

That would have been too easy. Instead, the author of the note had insisted on a clandestine meeting at a random location on a freezing night. Making her get out in the cold and pump gas, no less.

Already she didn’t like the person. They better not waste her time.

Since she had zero leads, she didn’t have much of a choice. The bishop had turned her away, and the sheriff’s department had only given her the most basic of information regarding the party and the fatal accident that night. Even the few teenagers she’d tracked down had shut her out. However, Grace was not easily deterred. She had spent her days since graduating with her journalism degree traveling the world, writing in-depth articles featuring people or events that needed highlighting. The tagline under her online bio read Giving a Voice to the Voiceless.

Grace turned her car onto Main Street and was mildly cheered by the trees covered in twinkling white lights, even though Christmas had passed a few weeks ago. She supposed no one could fault the residents of Quail Hollow for looking for something to brighten up the long months of January and February in the great white north, where the days were short and the snow was deep.

It had been a long time since she had spent a winter up north. Her job afforded her the luxury of traveling the world, and when she had a choice, she chose warm, mild weather, certainly not polar-bear cold.

Before Grace’s emergency appendectomy, she had finished a story in Florida about a young mother who had lost her job after she missed work due to cancer treatments. Grace’s story led to a huge community outpouring of support and the promise of another job when the woman felt well enough.

That was why Grace did what she did.

But life’s twists and turns—including a surprise appendectomy, infection and prolonged recovery—put her right in the middle of an exciting story while holed up at her sister’s bed & breakfast in Quail Hollow.

Grace slowed and turned into the snowy parking lot of the gas station. The back of her car fishtailed, then she regained control. Prickles of anxiety swept across her skin. Boy, she hated driving in the snow. It didn’t help that her sister’s car probably needed new tires.

Grace pulled under the overhang meant to protect customers from the elements while they filled their tanks. The snow swirled violently, touching down in mini tornadoes. No overhang would protect the customers from those gusts. She shuddered, despite the warm air pumping from the heating vents. In the rearview mirror, she saw an Amish man with his collar flipped up, hunkered down in his wagon. He flicked the horse’s reins and continued to trot down the street in a steady rhythm.

Suck it up, buttercup, she thought. At least she wasn’t exposed to the elements like the Amish man in his open wagon. How did they deal with the harsh winter? It reminded her of a story she had written about the homeless in Arizona. One man claimed he moved down there from Minnesota because if life had dealt him the unfair hand of being homeless, he would choose to live in the desert.

Clearing her thoughts, Grace scanned the gas station parking lot. She had to keep her head in the game. Stay focused. The gas station and surrounding stores were mostly quiet except for a couple of vehicles parked along the fence on one edge of the parking lot. One car, covered in a layer of snow, was probably an employee’s. The other, a truck, looked like someone had recently parked and run into the attached minimart or a neighboring store on Main Street.

No sign of someone lingering around to talk to her.

Clicking her fingernails on the steering wheel, she watched the red digital number on the dashboard change to 8:01 p.m. Past experience told her that sources didn’t always keep to a schedule. Dreading the inevitable, she wrapped her scarf around her neck and pushed open the door. The arctic air rushed in, making her wish she was covering a story near the equator. “Where are you?” she muttered under her breath as she climbed out and scanned the parking lot again. It didn’t help that she had no idea who she was looking for.

Grace waited half a second before lifting the pump from its slot and jamming it into the car’s tank, hoping that the letter writer approached before her ears froze off. She yanked down her hat. Sighing heavily, she swiped her credit card through the reader, selected 87 octane and began pumping. Because she refused to ruin her nice leather gloves, she didn’t wear them while she filled the tank. Seconds seemed like hours, and she wondered if she’d ever be able to uncurl her frozen fingers from the metal handle.

She continued to sweep her gaze across the area while she pumped gas. The pump clicked off. If her secret informant was going to show, he’d better show now or she was getting back into her car and cranking up the heat before she turned into a popsicle.

She turned to hang up the pump when she heard the deep rumble of an engine roaring to life. She spun around. The reverse lights lit up on the pickup truck parked nearby. Strange, since she hadn’t noticed anyone getting into it. She reached for the door handle on her car, convinced her pen pal had stiffed her.

The sound of tires spinning drew her attention back to the truck. Her heart jolted into her throat. The driver sped in Reverse, barreling directly toward her.

She dove to the side, fearing she’d be pinned between her car and the gas pumps. Visions of news coverage of fuel pumps ablaze and charred cars ran through her mind. She landed with an oomph and pain shot through her midsection from her recent appendectomy. Slushy wetness seeped through her clothes, adding insult to injury.

The sound of metal crunching metal filled her ears. She desperately tried to scramble away in an awkward crab crawl. Craning her head, she caught sight of the pickup truck tearing out onto Main Street. Relief that he was leaving wrestled with anger that he was getting away, making her forget the pain shooting through her numb hands. The world shifted into slow motion. A bitterly cold wind turned her vision blurry, making it difficult to make out the profile of the departing driver.

* * *

The back end of a vehicle had been smashed against the fuel pumps, leaving Captain Conner Gates wondering what had happened here. When Dispatch sent him on the hit-and-run call, he had expected to see a fender bender and two drivers arguing over who was at fault.

This was far more than a simple collision.

An uneasy feeling swept over him as he pushed open the door on the patrol car and climbed out. Despite having grown up in Quail Hollow, he’d never get used to the cold. Squinting against a blast of wind, he inspected the crumpled back end of the vehicle driven against the cement base of the fuel pumps. No sign of a second vehicle. Unease tightened like a fist in his gut. The images from the night of his cousin’s fatal accident six weeks ago were seared into his brain. Well, technically, Jason was the son of a cousin, but he’d been like a brother to him. Jason’s pickup truck had clipped an Amish woman’s wagon then continued on, careening out of control and coming to rest wrapped around the solid trunk of a tree. Past experience told him no one could survive the brutal impact.

Past experience had been right.

Jason had died instantly.

Blinking away the graphic image of the young man’s bloodied face, Conner muttered to himself that he hoped no one was injured tonight. He had long ago given up on prayer.

The dispatcher hadn’t indicated any injuries.

Conner flipped up his collar and shrugged his shoulders against the punishing winds. The harsh glare of the emergency lights on his patrol car cut across his line of vision. He caught sight of a woman standing inside the minimart with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The woman next to her, Erin, the gas station clerk in her green uniform vest, waved at him frantically. Conner stopped at the minimart at least once a shift for some friendly chatter and hot black coffee.

He glanced around. There was only one other car in the lot, and it hadn’t sustained any damage. He spoke into his shoulder radio. “I’m at the gas station. Send a tow truck.” He yanked open the glass door and stepped inside. “You okay?” he asked the shivering woman. “Need an ambulance?”

Her red fingers flitted in a quick wave of dismissal. “No. No ambulance. I’m okay.”

He nodded briefly and relayed the information to Dispatch.

Conner tugged off his leather glove and held out his hand. “I’m Captain Gates from the sheriff’s department.” Her hand was ice cold. “Can you tell me what happened here?”

“Someone rammed into my car and took off.” Conner expected to hear fear in the woman’s tone. Instead, he was met by the hard edge of annoyance. “It’s my sister’s car,” she added, as if that might explain her tone.

“It was horrible.” Erin rolled up on the balls of her orthopedic shoes and her eyes brightened with excitement. This was, after all, probably the most thrilling thing she’d witnessed in her fifty-odd years. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Always thought maybe someday someone would come crashing through the front of the store. You know?” She touched the arm of the woman standing next to her. If she had been looking for an ally, she didn’t find one in the woman’s steely gaze. The clerk continued, undeterred. “I see that all the time on the TV. But, wow, never seen anything like that in real life. He was aiming right for this lady’s car.”

“You saw the accident?”

“Yes,” Erin said. “I looked up when I heard the tires squeal. At first I thought it was on account of the snow and ice. But no, this was completely intentional. He tried to crush her between the car and fuel pumps.” The clerk’s eyes grew wide. “I didn’t catch the license plate. He pulled in and parked there shortly before this lady arrived. Never came into the store. I didn’t think much of it because people use this parking lot all the time to shop at other stores. Easier than street parking.”

“Did you notice anyone getting out of the truck?” Conner asked.

“Can’t say that I did.”

Conner directed his attention to the attractive woman who clasped a blanket tightly around her shoulders. Her attention was focused on the parking lot, or maybe her car. What was she searching for? “Any surveillance camera footage from that part of the parking lot?” Conner asked.

“Doubtful. You’re free to look, though,” Erin offered. “The only camera is pointed at the register.”

“Do you...” He backed up his train of thought and turned toward the shivering woman. “I’m sorry. What’s your name?” It wasn’t often that he met strangers in Quail Hollow. It was one of those places where everyone knew everyone else or, at the very least, knew of everyone else. He most definitely had never met this brunette with watchful brown eyes. Yet something about her seemed vaguely familiar.

“Grace Miller.” She blinked slowly, as if she had to think about it.

He made a mental note of it. Miller was a common Amish name around here; however, this woman was definitely not Amish. Not with her long brown hair flowing out from under her knit cap. Not to mention her expensive-looking boots, albeit not snow boots.

“Do you have ID?”

She held up her hand toward the smashed car. “My purse is on the passenger seat.”

“No problem. We can deal with that later. Want to tell me what happened?”

A shadow crossed her eyes as if she were deciding how much to tell him. “I was pumping gas and some guy crashed into me. And took off.” She seemed bored with the retelling. It was odd. Most people would have been completely panicked if someone rammed into their car while they pumped gas.

“Do you know the guy? Did you see him or get a license plate?”

“Of course I don’t know him. And no, I didn’t get a license plate. I was too busy diving out of the way.” She twisted to get a better look at the slushy, black snow on her pants. She winced and her hand moved to her midsection. “I only saw a profile. Male. It was too hard to make out his face.”

“Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”

“I’ll be fine. I had my appendix out a few weeks ago. Landing on my side didn’t do much for my recovery.” Apparently sensing he was going to push the doctor thing again, she held up her hand. “I’m fine, really. I want to go home and change my clothes. I’m soaking wet.”

“All right.” Conner glanced around. The beeping sound of a tow truck backing up to her damaged car filled the night air. “Do you have someone you can call for a ride?”

“Um, no?” Her answer came out as a question. “I don’t suppose Quail Hollow has Uber.”

He suppressed a chuckle. “Let me take a few photos of the scene, talk to the tow truck driver, then I’ll see that you get home.”

A fraught expression tightened her pretty features. “That would be great.”

“Wait here where it’s warm.”

Grace hugged the blanket closer around her and shuddered. “That’s a matter of opinion.” Her lips tilted into a weary smile, but he didn’t miss the daggers shooting from her eyes.

* * *

For all the investigative journalism Grace had done over the years, she had never sat in the front seat of a patrol car. She had never sat in the backseat, either, for that matter. She’d come close a few times, but she had a knack for knowing when pushing law enforcement for answers had drifted from merely annoying to “let’s lock her up.”

The officer had started the engine, then climbed back out of the vehicle. She felt a little guilty about being coy regarding what happened tonight. She hadn’t just been filling her gas tank. She had come here because she had received a tip on the story she was working on. However, the sheriff’s department had been less than forthcoming with information when it came to the underage drinking party and subsequent fatal car accident.

Two could play at that game.

Besides, she didn’t want to become part of the story. If she kept her mouth shut, the hit-and-run would be a little blurb on the back page of a local paper and not part of a larger story, one that she was trying to cover. That was, if Quail Hollow had a newspaper.

Grace hadn’t dealt with this officer from the sheriff’s department before. Maybe she could pry some information out of him before he realized she was a journalist.

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.”

“Maybe I provided you a lead tonight. Go find the truck that rammed my sister’s car. Then you’ll find someone who has something to hide.”

“Trust me, we’ll be working that angle. Meanwhile, I need you to stay put.”

“Don’t tell me to stay put.” Anger surged hot and fiery in her veins. She didn’t take commands from anyone, certainly not a man she had just met.

“I can’t keep saving you if you’re being reckless.”

“I hardly think pumping gas is being reckless.”

Conner held up his hand, then backed up. “Good night. Set the alarm when I leave.” He pulled a business card from his pocket. “Here’s my cell phone number. I’ll respond quicker than a 9-1-1 call from a cell. Sometimes those calls are routed through a few substations before they can find the origin.”

“If you’re trying to scare me, you’re not.”

He set the card down on the table and looked at her intently. “I’m not trying to scare you. You need to understand how things are. Good night,” he added tersely, turning to leave.

She stomped to the back door and turned the lock behind him. An ache in her hip from her heroic dive earlier this evening joined the dull pain from her appendectomy surgery.

The memory of the truck barreling toward her came to mind. She entered the alarm code and hit On, convincing herself she was safe. She had pursued far more dangerous stories in far scarier parts of the world. She wasn’t afraid of some teenager in a souped-up truck, if indeed the accident at the gas station had been intentional.

She returned to the sitting room and slipped her laptop out of the case resting against her sister’s fancy rolltop desk. She logged on to her blog, the one the editor encouraged her to keep updated. Since he was the one who assigned the stories, it was in her best interest to keep him happy.

“It gets the readers excited,” he’d told her more than once.

She focused her thoughts, her fingers hovering motionless over the keyboard. The hurt and betrayal in Conner’s eyes would haunt her. The dead boy had been his family. His responsibility.

The young man had made a horrible error in judgment that put a young Amish girl in a coma. People had to take responsibility for their actions.

No one had ever taken responsibility for her mother’s murder.

She considered all the hurt and deceit in her life. Her mother’s murder. Her sister’s violent husband. People weren’t always who they seemed to be. She had to shed light on the evil of the world. Give victims a voice.

This was her job. Her editor expected her to write the story.

She clicked New Post and started to type:

The idyllic countryside is dotted with picturesque farmhouses and barns. The Amish people wear conservative clothing and use horses for transportation, as if living in another era. Yet the world changes around them at a dizzying speed.

Alcohol. Drugs. And other evils.

The Amish choose to live an insular life with porous borders that provide no barrier at all. They are warned to live separate from the world.

But, apparently, no one told the outsiders, for they have found a way in.

Grace drummed her fingers on the edge of the keypad and reread her words. Too dramatic?

She closed her eyes and tried to remember her mother’s face. It was hazy, the memory of a three-year-old little girl.

Her mother had been murdered and no one had paid for the crime. Justice had never been served. Were the answers still out there? Was it really too late? What could it hurt to talk to the sheriff at the time of her mother’s death? Could she still ask Captain Gates to set up a meeting with his father? She hadn’t been very sympathetic to his family’s plight when he asked her not to write about Jason.

Conner must think she was as cold as the winter winds slamming the outside walls of the Quail Hollow Bed & Breakfast. Nerves tangled in her stomach, and she made one more check of the alarm.

All set.

She wandered back to the seating area and stared over the yard. In the window, her weary reflection peered back at her. A chill raced down her spine.

She backed away from the window, unable to shake the sensation that she wasn’t alone.

THREE

Late the next afternoon, after completing his shift, Conner strode around to the passenger side of his personal vehicle and opened the door for Grace. She had called him early that morning to see if the offer to talk to his father was still on the table. Conner considered this a good sign. Maybe they’d work out something mutually beneficial for both of them. She could get information on her mother’s murder, and maybe she’d back off Jason’s story.

When Grace didn’t immediately unbuckle her seat belt, he asked, “Is something wrong?”

“Are you sure your dad’s up for talking to me?”

“Yeah, come on. I called him earlier.” He held out his hand, and she finally unbuckled her seat belt and slid out of the truck without taking it. “He generally doesn’t like to discuss this case with outsiders, but that’s not the situation here.” Conner paused, not wanting to say that his father had always had a soft spot for the three little girls that Sarah Miller had left behind when she was brutally murdered. “He’s willing to talk to one of Sarah’s daughters.

“Besides—” he yanked open the back door and grabbed the takeout bags “—he’s always up for food.”

Grace held her scarf close to her neck as they walked up the pathway cleared of snow. Conner suspected his father had shoveled the flakes before they had a chance to hit the ground, whereas Conner preferred to put his four-wheel-drive truck to work each winter, creating two deep tracks in his long driveway. No shovel required. It was an ongoing joke between the two men.

“Watch out for the ice on the steps.” The salt hadn’t kept up with the sun-kissed icicles dripping from the overhang. He reached out for her elbow. She moved to the side and grabbed the railing instead.

“Any leads on the truck involved in the hit-and-run last night?” she asked.

“No, nothing on the surveillance video. But that was to be expected since it was positioned at the register and the driver never came into the store. All the officers know to look for a pickup with rear-end damage. If anyone tries to bring a truck in for repairs within a hundred-mile radius, we’ll be notified.”

Grace glanced up at him. “Why was it you answered the call last night when you obviously work the day shift?”

Conner smiled. “It’s a small town. I was filling in for another officer who requested off.”

She nodded.

“I’ve also—” The door swung open, stopping Conner midsentence. His father must have been waiting on the other side for their arrival. “Hey, Dad.”

“Son.” The former sheriff stepped back into the foyer, allowing him and Grace to enter. His father took the takeout bag from his son before grabbing their coats with his other hand. He shuffled off to the first-floor bedroom where he undoubtedly placed the coats on the king-size bed, like Conner’s mother used to do when they entertained when he was a little boy. It baffled Conner that, even after twenty-some years, the memory of his mother’s habits made him miss her like the day she had left.

Time had passed. The Miller case had grown cold. His father retired. Yet his mother never returned, having found happiness with a nice engineer with regular hours and little chance of getting shot on the job. Apparently, the replacement kids meant she didn’t miss the one she had left behind in Quail Hollow.

“Oh, something smells good.” His father’s voice snapped Conner out of his dark thoughts.

“Yeah, I picked up a few burgers from the diner,” Conner said.

His father nodded. “This must be—”

“Grace Miller,” Conner jumped in. “This is my father, Harry Gates.”

His father narrowed his eyes, and a frown slanted his mouth. “If my memory serves me correctly, the Miller girls were Heather, Lily and Rose. Not Grace.”

Conner watched Grace, wondering what that was all about. His memory had been a little hazy on the girls’ names, but he hadn’t given it much thought because she was staying at Heather’s bed & breakfast. And the striking resemblance to her mother...

Had this woman deceived him?

Conner was starting to feel protective of his father when she finally spoke up. “I’m Lily. Lily Grace. I started going by my middle name when I went away to college.” She smiled ruefully. “I wanted to put distance between my name and the tragedy that shaped my life.”

“Seems reasonable,” his father said without much ceremony. His father’s career and failed marriage had hardened him. What little sentimentality that remained belonged to the family of Sarah Miller. The family he had let down.

“Regardless of the name, there’s no doubt you’re your mother’s daughter. You have the same face.” His father tipped his head. “However, she was Amish and you’re—” he scanned her modern clothes and gave her a crooked smile “—obviously not. Do you see the resemblance yourself?”

“I only have a vague memory of my mom. The Amish don’t allow photos, so I can only rely on my memories. I was only three when she died.”

His dad held up his hand. “Of course. You were very young. Such a tragic thing. It’s going on thirty years, isn’t it?”

“Getting there. A lifetime ago.” Conner detected a vulnerability in Grace that had been lacking last night when she was focused on his cousin’s story. Perhaps she had been wise to keep her professional and personal lives separate.

Conner caught Grace’s gaze briefly before his father invited them farther into the house. When they reached the dining room, Conner was surprised to see retired Undersheriff Kevin Schrock sitting at the table, his chair angled to keep an eye on some TV program with a guy haggling to buy some other guy’s stuff. The big-screen TV dominated the adjacent family room. Kevin stood when they entered, and his dad was the first to speak. “I invited Kevin over. Kevin, this is Lil...Grace Miller. Grace, this is Kevin Schrock. He was one of the key investigators in your mother’s case.”

Grace shook his hand. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

Kevin studied Grace’s face, probably seeing the same thing that Conner’s father saw: the likeness to the woman whose murder they had never been able to solve.

His father peered into the paper bag with blossoming grease stains on the bottom and sides. “Any chance you have an extra burger in here?”

“Of course.” Conner pulled out a chair for Grace to sit down. “Plenty of food for everyone.” He smiled at Kevin. “Nice to see you.”

“Same here.” Kevin picked up the remote sitting on the table in front of him and muted the TV program. He shifted in his chair to face Grace. “Boy, you certainly don’t look like the little girl who left Quail Hollow in an Amish bonnet and bare feet.”

Conner shot Kevin a stern look. These old-timers got directly to the point.

“I suppose not,” Grace said softly.

“You’ve come back to find answers?” Kevin pressed, seemingly intrigued.

“That wasn’t my intention. Not initially. I was staying at my sister’s bed & breakfast for other reasons, and then my editor asked me to write a story regarding the underage drinking party involving both the Amish and the townies.”

His father muttered something he couldn’t make out, anger blazing in his eyes. He cleared his throat and finally spoke. “I’m sure my son told you that Jason Klein, the boy killed in the crash that night, was family.”

Grace swallowed hard. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

His father’s expression grew pinched, and he faced Conner. “She’s a journalist? I hadn’t realized that.”

“She wants to know about her mom.”

Resting his elbows on the table, his father leaned forward. “If your motive is to drag poor Jason’s name through the mud...” He shook his head. “Jason’s mother has been through enough, hasn’t she? First losing her husband in a horrible helicopter crash, now her son.”

“That’s not my intention, sir.” Grace moved to sit on the edge of her seat. “I like to shed light on untold stories. I’m sure people would be fascinated to learn of the—” she seemed to be choosing her words carefully “—things that go on in an Amish community beyond farming and cross-stitch.”

“You really did move away from here young.” Kevin folded his arms, a self-satisfied look on his face. “The Amish do far more than farm and needlework.”

Grace tucked a long strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t identify with the Amish at all. My father raised us in Buffalo. Please forgive me if I find this story fascinating. Others will, too. I’m sure of it.”

“Oh, people will find it interesting,” his father said. “They were all over your mother’s murder, too.”

Grace’s face burned red, and uncertainty glistened in her eyes.

“Dad!” Conner scolded him. “Grace came here to talk, not to be put on the spot.” Conner suspected his father’s blunt comment was a result of wanting to protect Jason, his great-nephew.

“After your mother’s murder, a young reporter thought she’d make a name for herself and wrote story after story about the Miller murder for the Quail Hollow Gazette. She inserted herself to the point that the Amish wouldn’t talk to anyone anymore, not even law enforcement.” His father fisted his hands in his lap, his anger evidently directed at a long-ago slight, not at the need to protect Jason. “The journalist was a huge detriment to our investigation.”

“You never told me that.” Conner studied his father’s face. A vein throbbed at the elderly man’s temple, his ire still palpable. His father had pored over paperwork and reports at the kitchen table long after the town had written Sarah Miller’s death off to a tragic and random encounter with a stranger passing through town. Yet they had never been able to prove it.

Conner himself had never felt the need to read the newspaper accounts because the case had taken over his young life, leaving his father obsessed and his mother absent. Now, as a law enforcement officer, he understood the delicate relationship with reporters and with the Amish. He had recently tried to mind this relationship when he’d asked Grace to stop asking questions about the night Jason was killed.

“People would say my accusations regarding the reporter were only conjecture on my part,” his father continued. “That I needed to take responsibility for not handling the investigation. That I was the only one responsible for not finding the murderer.”

“My intention wasn’t to upset you.” Grace pushed back from her chair, stood and smiled sympathetically. “I’m sorry, sir. I was under the impression that your son had told you I was coming.”

“He did. But I thought I’d be talking to Sarah Miller’s daughter. Not a journalist.”

* * *

“Please, sit down.” Conner gently touched Grace’s wrist and they locked gazes. He gave her a quick nod as if to say, “It’s okay. Please stay.” Trusting him, she sat down. If she hoped to learn anything about her mom, she didn’t see that she had much of a choice.

She glanced over at the undersheriff. Tingles of awareness prickled her skin from the retired officer’s intense focus. She hadn’t realized she’d be ambushed when she arrived here.

“I’m sorry you had a bad experience with a reporter. I have no intention of making anyone look bad.” Her only motivation was to reveal the truth. Let the rest of the chips fall where they may.

The retired sheriff grumbled under his breath, perhaps understanding more than most how these things worked.

Grace picked up a French fry and distractedly dipped it into the glob of ketchup she had squirted onto her paper plate. “I understand you put a lot of time into my mother’s case. Why was this one more difficult than most?” She knew from her journalism career that all cases weren’t neatly wrapped up.

Conner’s father folded the corner of the takeout wrapper from his hamburger. “Murder is rare in Quail Hollow. Some might say I was out of my depth. I worked that case harder than I’d ever worked anything before. Or since.” There was a faraway quality to his voice. “The best lead we had was a man who had been traveling through town. Eventually, we tracked him down, but he had a solid alibi. Rumors cropped up that there was another stranger in town. The locals needed to believe it was an outsider. It grew harder and harder to separate fact from fiction. But that’s where we still are all these years later. A vagrant passing through town killed Sarah Miller.”

“Were there any other suspects?”

The two retired law enforcement officers exchanged a subtle glance that she might have missed if she hadn’t been so observant. A heaviness weighed on her chest, making the room feel close. When neither of them answered, she pressed, “What aren’t you telling me?” A cold pool of dread formed in the pit of her stomach. “What?”

Kevin drummed his fingers on the table. She guessed it was a nervous habit. “In a murder investigation, the person closest to the victim is usually investigated.”

She tossed aside the French fry and wiped her hands on a napkin. “That’s not unusual.” She shrugged, trying to act casual when her insides were rioting. Her sweet father. Her mother’s murder had destroyed him. “You cleared my father and then moved on to this stranger passing through Quail Hollow.” Her gaze shifted between the two men. Holding her breath, she waited for reassurance. Of course they’d cleared her father. Hadn’t they?

Kevin finished chewing a bite of his burger and swallowed. “Your father moved out of town before we could one hundred percent clear him.”

“Well, that’s only partially true.” Harry leaned forward and gave her a reassuring smile. “I knew your father a bit from town before your mother’s murder. Your father and mother used to sell corn at the farmers market on the weekends. He was a friendly man. Talkative. You girls were his little helpers. After your mother’s murder, he shut down. Her death broke him.” He pressed his lips together. “Even though we never officially cleared him, my gut told me that he could never have hurt Sarah. Never.”

A lump of emotion clogged her throat. “Thank you.” She averted her gaze, fearing she’d lose it if she didn’t. This was the price of looking into her family’s story, the reason she had avoided it all these years. The reason she’d probably leave here today and forget she ever came.

“What else can you tell Grace about the time surrounding her mother’s death?” Conner asked the question Grace was now afraid to, because she was uncertain she could afford the emotional toll.

“The night Sarah disappeared, she had taken the horse and wagon into town to drop off a few pies. She had sold them to the diner. She left you girls home with your grandmother. A few people noticed her in town, but didn’t see anything or anyone suspicious. She never came home.”

She never came home.

Pinpricks of dread washed over Grace’s scalp as if she were reliving her mother’s last moments. She had vague memories of hanging out at the farmers market. Maybe the memories had been dreams, yet the images were vivid: the long dresses of the Amish women, the farmers’ work boots and the fancy shoes of the Englisch. The occasional dog would lick her sticky fingers after she devoured a piece of apple strudel. The farmers’ market was the highlight of the week. She figured the only reason she had those memories was because of how quickly her life had changed.

Amish to outsider.

Before versus after.

Conner’s father glanced over at his former coworker. “Anything else to add?”

“No. Not really. It was a shame we never found the guilty party. It was like he vanished into the night.”

“You mentioned a reporter at the time...” Grace watched the former sheriff flinch.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “She worked for the now-defunct Quail Hollow Gazette. She was like a dog with a bone. Relentless.”

“Do you know if she still lives in Quail Hollow?” Grace asked, hope blossoming. Another piece of the puzzle.

Can I really do this?

Kevin leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Can’t be sure. I believe she had some health issues and moved away to live with her daughter down south. Away from this cold.”

“I imagine they have her articles on file at the library,” Grace said, thinking out loud. “Maybe I’ll do some digging.”

After they finished eating, Grace and Conner carried the paper plates and glasses into the kitchen. Grace leaned on the counter while Conner put the glasses in the dishwasher. “I’m not sure I’m ready to look into my mother’s murder.”

Conner slowly closed the dishwasher door and turned to face her. “Your mother’s sudden death had to be really tough on you. Leaving this community must have made it that much harder.”

“I often wondered how my life would have been if I had grown up Amish. I look at the Amish men and women in town and try to imagine the path not taken. Sometimes I wonder if this was all part of God’s bigger plan.” Heat crept up her face. “Don’t get me wrong—I’d do anything to have my mom back. Yet no one could have predicted how her death changed everything about my life. Not all of it bad.” She slowly ran a hand through her hair. “That sounds horrible, doesn’t it?”

“No, life’s twists and turns are hard to understand sometimes.” He took a step closer to her, and she didn’t move. “But some tragedies don’t have any redeeming qualities.”

“You’re talking about Jason’s death.”

He nodded, a flash of hurt in his eyes. “I’m asking you not to continue to write about the death of my cousin’s son. It’s hard for our family, especially his mom. She lost her son and her husband in the course of a year. She’s spiraling out of control. She’s distraught.”

A knot twisted in Grace’s stomach. “I’m sympathetic. I really am, but you can’t compare the two cases. Jason drove under the influence. He made a choice.” She shifted away from the counter and glanced out the back window overlooking the snow-covered yard. The evening light was about to fade. “This is my job.” Grace wondered how many times they’d go round and round on this topic.

“Everyone has a job to do.” Grace spun around to find Kevin Schrock resting his shoulder on the doorway of the kitchen. “And sometimes it’s best not to mix business with personal.” How long had he been eavesdropping?

Kevin seemed unfazed that he had interrupted their private conversation. “His dad allowed your mother’s case to get to him. Ruined his marriage.” He pushed off the doorway and strolled into the room. “You have to trust your gut on these things. If you don’t think you can live with what you find, maybe it’s a story better left untold.”

Grace stared at him, wondering which story he thought was better left untold.

* * *

A few days later, since her sister’s car was still in the collision shop, Grace called the number for a car service in town. The Amish often hired drivers to get them from place to place when taking a horse and buggy wasn’t feasible. The local district’s Ordnung allowed the Amish to ride in the vans, but they couldn’t own cars or drive themselves.

The driver, an older gentleman, dropped Grace off at the local library and promised to return in one hour to bring her home. Grace climbed out of the van and smiled at an Amish woman hustling past with three young daughters in tow. The thick fabric of their bonnets kept their heads warm. Their long dresses poked out from under black coats. The fabric brushed the edge of the shoveled walkway, collecting clumps of snow. Nostalgia pricked the back of Grace’s eyes. Another generation ago, that could have been her and her sisters.

Grace held her collar closed and strode toward the main entry of the quaint library. Ever since retired Sheriff Gates had mentioned the articles in the Quail Hollow Gazette about her mother’s murder, Grace couldn’t get them off her mind. She tried Googling and using some of her research tools to find the articles online, but came up empty. At first, Grace took it as a sign that she needed to let the past stay in the past.

Her initial curiosity had been followed by a restless night and a growing determination that hollowed out the pit of her stomach. Grace hadn’t become a top-notch reporter by allowing a dead end to stop her.

After alternating between “let it go” and “just read the articles already,” she decided only the latter would allow her to move on. Besides, there couldn’t be much to go on in the articles since no one had ever been arrested. Grace needed to squelch her obsessive curiosity, a quality that usually served her well.

She carefully made her way up the salt-covered walkway. She entered the library and drew in a deep breath. The smell of books filled her nose. Something felt familiar. Grace had always loved to read, and she wondered if perhaps her mom had brought her here. Instilled in her a love of reading.

Or maybe that had come later, growing up in Buffalo.

Grace approached the librarian. “Where can I find articles from the Quail Hollow Gazette?”

“Oh, the Gazette went under—” she hesitated, giving it some thought “—fifteen years ago.”

“Do you have copies of the paper from the 1990s?” Grace didn’t want to tell the librarian exactly what she was looking for because she didn’t want to invite questions.

“We have clippings of the more important articles from the paper filed chronologically in the basement.” The librarian emphasized the word basement, apparently trying to dissuade her.

“Is the basement open for patrons to do research?”

The librarian planted her hands on the desk and pushed to her feet. “Um, Linnie, I’m going to show this woman where the archives are in the basement,” she said to her colleague, also behind the desk.

“Thank you,” Grace said, hoping her gratitude would make the woman feel like her trouble was worth it. She had met all kinds during her travels, from those eager to tell her their life story, to those who seemed bothered by the idea of doing their job. Yet in Grace’s experience, whatever her reception, she chose to be pleasant. It proved to be disarming—most of the time.

The librarian muttered something as she led Grace down a back hall marked with an overhead exit sign. She moved surprisingly quickly despite her short, choppy steps and the narrow purple dress she wore. She stopped at a door before the emergency exit. With the key on a lanyard around her neck, the librarian unlocked the door, reached in and flipped on the lights. “I’ll show you the files, and then I have to get back upstairs to help Linnie. The library gets busy in the afternoon with all our after-school programs.” She squared her shoulders with a sense of pride.

“That’s fine.” Grace preferred to do her research without anyone standing over her shoulder, anyway.

The fluorescent lights buzzed to life in the basement. The librarian led her down the stairs, past a row of shelves stacked with books with identical bindings to a series of gray filing cabinets along a cement wall. The librarian planted her hand on the top of the cabinet, then pulled it away and swiped her hands together. “It’s a little dusty down here. Most libraries have this information on microfiche or digital but, well, we don’t have the budget for that.”

“I understand.” Grace hoped her cheery yet sympathetic tone was effective. She didn’t know how long she’d be here or if she’d need to come back, and she wanted the librarian on her side.

The woman clasped her hands in front of her. “What dates are you looking for?”

The filing cabinets were neatly labeled with month, day and year ranges. As long as the newspaper clippings were filed correctly according to date, she’d be able to search the articles at the time of her mother’s murder. She touched the handle of the closest cabinet. “I see the files are labeled. I’ll be fine.”

“Well—” the woman pursed her lips “—don’t refile anything. Place any files you pull out on the desk over there. I’ll refile them at a later date. Because if you don’t put them in the right spot—”

“No one will ever be able to find the article they’re looking for in the future.”

The woman leaned back on her heels, apparently satisfied. “When you’re done, let me know. I’ll be at the information desk upstairs.”

“Thank you.” Grace watched the librarian walk down the narrow aisle, the bookshelves lining one side and the filing cabinets the other, her heels clacking on the cement floor. The librarian disappeared around the corner, and Grace waited until she heard the basement door click shut.

Finally alone, Grace ran her fingers along the labels on the drawers and stopped on October of that fateful year. Her knees grew weak, and a darkness crowded the periphery of her vision. Was she about to open Pandora’s box?

Should she or shouldn’t she?

Drawing in a deep breath, she slid open the first cabinet drawer. She’d come this far. She’d check out a few articles, that’s all. Inside the drawer, manila folders were labeled with exact dates. She slid out the folders from a few days before to a few weeks after her mother’s body was found. She carried the stack to a desk at the far end of the aisle, pulled out a chair and sat. She squinted up at the flickering overhead lights, wishing there was a desk lamp. Not many people must use the basement.

She opened the folder dated the day after her mother’s body had been found.

Amish Woman Found Dead.

Her mother’s life had been reduced to a four-word headline. No name. Simply “Amish Woman.”

The black words on the yellowed paper swam in her field of vision. Blinking, she traced the letters, as if it provided a connection to her mother.

As she slowly read the article, she imagined the writer, fingers flying over the keyboard, jazzed to write about something more substantial than cows escaping through broken fences. A quiver rippled through her stomach. Was she any different?

She shook the thought away and focused on the article. It didn’t provide any significant information that she hadn’t already known. Her mother had gone into town to sell pies. The waitress oozed with pleasantries on how wonderful a person Mrs. Miller had been and then digressed into the usual platitudes: what an awful tragedy, her poor daughters, how had someone dumped her body in the family barn without being seen? It was almost too much to read.

Breathing slowly through her nose, Grace tried to calm her nerves. She pulled out another article and squinted at the black-and-white photo taken from a distance. Was that her with her father and sisters? The hairs on her arms prickled to life. Her grandma’s house—the site of her sister’s bed & breakfast before it had been updated—stood in the background. She recognized the tree out front and the porch. Emotions she wasn’t ready to explore coursed through her.

The buzzing and winking of the yellow fluorescent lights threatened to trigger a migraine. She slid the files into her tote bag, convinced the lighting would be better upstairs. She went over to the cabinet to close the drawer when the lights went out.

Her heart nearly exploded out of her chest.

Just great.

Frozen in blackness, Grace called out, “Hello, I’m down here.”

The only response was the uneven sound of her breath.

“Hel-lo?” Her voice hitched. She didn’t dare move for fear she’d trip over something in the blackness.

A muffled shuffling sent terror pulsing through her veins. “Hello? Is someone else down here?” She slid along the cabinets, the handles jabbing her side.

Hope made her change direction. Her phone was in her bag on the desk. It had a flashlight app. Or she could call for help.

A rhythmic creaking filled her ears, made louder in the blackness.

What is that?

“I’m down here!” she hollered in desperation.

“I know you’re down here,” an unseen man whispered. Tiny pinpricks of fear blanketed her scalp. She slid closer to the desk, realizing whoever was here had intentionally turned off the lights. And was coming for her.

Her hand found her tote bag on the desk. She reached inside and found her phone. She feared pulling it out and revealing her location, but she needed help. She swallowed hard. Remain calm. You’ve been in far scarier situations. Her usual response to those who warned her that her investigation was going to get her into trouble didn’t seem to be doing her much good at this exact moment.

A loud, rhythmic creaking filled her ears. A groan of exertion cut through the blackness. She scrambled under the desk with her phone.

A loud crash exploded in her ears. A violent whoosh of air sent her hair flying off her face.

The bookshelves had crashed down around her, leaving her trapped underneath the desk.

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