my mother working for him?”
The question was the one he’d expected her to start with. “I don’t think so. I didn’t spend all that much time at Uncle Allen’s place.”
“So you don’t know if she was working there the summer she disappeared.” Her voice flattened on the last word.
He hesitated, but she had a right to know. “My mother says she’s relatively sure she was.”
“Relatively sure,” she repeated.
“There’s no reason my mother should remember. It wasn’t her house. Or her spouse. Your father—”
“Yes, I know. It’s another thing to ask Dad when he calls.” Her lips tightened. “I’m sure the police chief would find this very suspicious, but just because my father doesn’t like to talk about his wife leaving him, that doesn’t mean anything sinister.”
“I know.” He lifted his hand in a placating gesture. “I mean it. There are plenty of things adults don’t talk to kids about. Your questions about my uncle make me realize how little I really knew about him. It’s odd, but when you’re a kid, you just accept things as they are. Probably a lot of people never have reason to question those assumptions.”
She nodded. “You’re right. I simply accepted the fact that Dad didn’t talk about my mother, and that if I wanted to know something, I had to go to Gran.”
That brought up something he’d wondered about. “How did she know?”
Marisa blinked. “What do you mean?”
“She didn’t live with you until after your mother left, did she? So how did she know the things she told you?”
“I suppose my dad must have talked to her.” She frowned. “That’s true. She didn’t live with us. I remember her coming. It must have been a few days after…after I realized my mother was gone. But I suppose my dad talked to her about it. Why? Do you doubt what she said?”
He shrugged. “The idea that the Amish kept after Barbara, trying to get her to leave…well, that doesn’t sound right to me. That’s not the way the Amish behave toward someone who’s decided to leave the church.”
That soft mouth of Marisa’s could look remarkably stubborn. “Are you an expert?”
“No, but I grew up with Amish neighbors. I think I know a bit more about them than you do.”
“Oh, yes. You’re the one who suggested enlisting the Miller family’s help.” Her tone was laced with sarcasm. “They admitted that they remembered my mother. But they wouldn’t tell me a thing. Just said I’d have to talk to the bishop.”
He had to be honest with himself, at least. He hadn’t expected that response.
“Well, maybe you should start with Bishop Amos. It’s possible that Rhoda and her husband felt it would be gossiping if they talked about the Zook family. I’m sure they didn’t mean anything else by it.”
“According to you, the Amish can do no wrong, it seems.”
“I didn’t say that.” She’d succeeded in getting under his skin. “I just think you’re misjudging them.”
“Really. Like the Amish man who was out in the yard last night—” Marisa clamped her lips shut, as if she hadn’t intended to say that.
He frowned. “What are you talking about? What Amish man?”
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” Her gaze evaded his.
“If you think someone is spying on you, it does matter. What happened?” He clasped her wrist firmly, determined to get an answer, and felt her pulse against his fingers.
She jerked her hand away. “I was awake sometime in the night. I looked out the window. A man was standing in the side yard. He seemed to be looking up at my window.”
There were a lot of things he could say to that, including the suggestion that she’d been dreaming. Or was paranoid.
“What makes you think he was Amish?” And are you sure someone was there?
“The hat. The beard. The dark clothes.” Color came up in her cheeks. “I know. You think I was dreaming or imagining things. I wasn’t.”
“Dreams can seem very real.” He ought to know. He’d dreamed that explosion in Afghanistan enough times, waking up covered in sweat, a cry strangled in his throat.
“I wasn’t dreaming.” She rose suddenly. “Forget it. Let’s get back.”
He stood, not sure what to say. “Maybe you ought to tell Adam about this.”
“So he can suggest I dreamt it, too?” She started toward the car.
He fell into step with her, still bothered. If Marisa was talking about something that really happened, that was troubling. And if she was imagining it, maybe that was even worse.
Marisa was wrong. She had to be. This figure in the night was a product of all the upsetting news she’d had to face in the past few days. The Amish people he knew just didn’t behave that way.
The Amish couple he’d seen earlier came out of the clinic door, their little boy skipping between them. They started toward the main walk. The man looked up, his gaze going from Link to Marisa. Then he took his wife’s arm, clasped his son’s hand and deliberately walked back the other way.
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