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
