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?”
“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
