John had a good marriage?”
“When we got together for the first time five months ago—my sister drove the wagon to the McDonald’s in the next town—she said she was worried that John didn’t seem content. She feared he might leave her and the girls. John had given up farming for the most part and had taken a job making fancy swing sets.”
Spencer pointed toward the road with his thumb and squinted. “The place down the road? A lot of Amish men are employed there.” The Amish were notorious for being hardworking, skilled laborers. No shame in that.
“That was the first change. John also spent more time with the men whom he had left with years earlier.”
“Do you know these men?” Rumors reached the station that there had been some discord within the Amish community. When he tried to investigate, the alleged victims, men who had their beards cut in the middle of the night, refused to talk to him. Even Ruth Lapp had sent him away when he had come to this very farm to question her about her husband’s possible involvement. But there was no mistaking the fear in her eyes. Ruth Lapp was afraid of something.
Miss Wittmer got a distant look in her eyes, as if she were replaying a memory. “Ruth never gave me the names of the men John was hanging out with. I’ve been gone a long time. The names may not have meant much to me.” She ran her pinched fingers down the long tie on the bonnet in her hand. “There was something I found strange. My sister made what I thought was a passing comment about taking care of her girls. I laughed at her.” Regret and grief flashed in her eyes. She sniffed. “When I realized she wasn’t joking, I assured her she was doing a great job as a mom but if the time ever came, I’d make sure Emma and Sarah were well taken care of.”
Her gaze drifted up to meet his. “Do you think she knew something was going to happen to her?”
The memory of Ruth Lapp shooing him off the farm so that her husband wouldn’t find him here had haunted him from the moment he heard of her untimely death.
“Your sister seemed afraid, but she wouldn’t open up to me.”
Miss Wittmer’s head shot up. “Why didn’t you do something. Protect her?”
Spencer shoved his shoulders back despite the punch to his gut. “She assured me everything was fine. She told me to go, reminding me that the Amish and law enforcement have a tenuous relationship at best. There wasn’t much more I could do if Ruth didn’t talk to me.”
Miss Wittmer bowed her head, and her shoulders sagged. “I was helpless when it came to my sister, too. I had no right to snap at you.” Clasping her hands in her lap, as if she were bracing for something, she asked, “How do you know my sister’s death wasn’t an accident?”
“The county medical examiner didn’t find any corn in her mouth or nose. If your sister had suffocated in the silo, she would have inhaled the corn.”
Miss Wittmer closed her eyes. “He killed her, didn’t he? John Lapp killed my sister.”
Spencer cleared his throat. “We’re still investigating. The Lapp family has been unwilling to talk to me. I’ll give them a day or two to reconsider.”
Miss Wittmer rubbed her arms, despite the mild evening. Her bonnet had been abandoned on her lap. “How cooperative do you think they’re going to be when you accuse their son of killing my sister?”
“It’s part of my job.”
“I don’t envy you.” She planted her elbow on the arm of her chair and rested her chin in her palm. “I don’t envy either of us.”
Hannah tossed and turned on a small cot in the first-floor bedroom of her childhood home, now her sister’s home. Even the white noise of the crickets couldn’t lull her to sleep, not after the news she had received from Sheriff Maxwell. He had left her with a warning to be careful, his cell phone number and a promise to have his officers patrol her property.
Small consolation in the dead of night in the middle of nowhere.
Not even knowing that her mother slept nearby in the adjacent dawdy haus could calm her nerves.
The small bedroom grew stifling, yet she still couldn’t bring herself to move to her sister’s more spacious bedroom upstairs. Hannah slipped out of bed and slid the window open. She dismissed her silly fears that someone would climb through her window because if someone really wanted to get in, all they had to do was stroll through the front door. It didn’t have a lock.
Hannah flopped down on the cot and sighed. She pulled the sheet up to her chin and stared toward the open bedroom door, imagining the shapes morphing into an intruder, namely John. She was driving herself crazy. Her nerves felt like they were jacked on too much caffeine.
Had John really killed her sister? The sheriff had warned her they didn’t have enough evidence to prove John had been involved. But still...
Hannah struggled to quiet her mind with prayer and the hope of sleep. The chirping crickets filled her ears, and she realized the noise could also mask footsteps on creaking floorboards.
Tingles of dread crept up her spine.
“You’re being silly. You lived in the city and never were this afraid,” she whispered into the night.
You never tried to fall asleep with the knowledge your sister had been murdered.
Sitting up, she leaned against the wall and tipped her head back. The piece of snitz pie she had eaten before bed didn’t seem like such a good idea. She was making herself sick with anxiety.
Just when her rational side had talked her irrational side out of a full-blown panic attack, the blaring of a car alarm sliced through the cacophony of chirping. Hannah bolted upright and snapped her attention toward the window. Her car was parked behind the barn and covered with a tarp.
She pressed a hand to her thumping chest and drew in deep breaths.
The alarm will turn off by itself. It will turn off by itself.
How many times had a car alarm gone off in the city? Especially on her street filled with college students and their varying schedules. Car alarms were sensitive. An animal probably scampered across the tarp. Or a tree branch dropped on it. Or...or...
No, it did not mean someone was out there waiting for her. Her apprehension grew with the strident pulsing of the alarm. She drew in another deep breath through her nose and released it.
Hannah threw back the sheet and climbed out of bed. She pushed back her shoulders. I’m being ridiculous.
She grabbed her cell phone from the end table and dialed six digits of Sheriff Maxwell’s phone number, ready to press the seventh digit if needed. She grabbed a flashlight and her car keys from the kitchen on her way out the door. She stopped long enough to stuff her feet into boots.
Her focus tunneled. She made a direct path to her car, tucked neatly between the barn and a dense crop of trees. Striding across the yard, she rolled her ankle in a rut. “Whose great idea was it to park my car way out here? Oh yeah, mine,” she muttered. Hannah was doing everything
