“Katie.”
I turn at the sound of Adam’s voice to see him emerge from the hall. Not from upstairs where his bedroom is located, I realize, but the hall off the sewing room, where Gina has been staying. Something sinks inside me as I take in the sight of him. He’s disheveled, wearing the same clothes he had on last night, hair sticking up on one side, his hat in his hand. For the span of several heartbeats, we stare at each other, unspoken words passing between us. I see discomfort in his eyes. Regret etched into his features. Those same awkward sentiments climb over me, settle onto my shoulders, but I shove them back, keep my mind on the business at hand.
“Amos Yoder is here to see you,” I say, a little too stiffly.
Adam’s eyes flick toward the front door. He takes a moment to put on his hat, squares his shoulders. “I … overslept.”
“I think everyone except for Mr. Yoder overslept,” I say beneath my breath.
He doesn’t so much as crack a smile. Shamefaced, he strides to the front door. “Amos. Guder mariye.”
“I thought you’d be up by now.” Amos Yoder looks from Adam to me and back to Adam. One side of his mouth twitches, but he covers it with a cough.
“Overslept.” Adam clears his throat.
Yoder ducks his head, looks at me from beneath the brim of his hat. “I didn’t realize you had non-Amish visitors.”
Adam steps back to clear the way for the other man to enter. “Kumma inseid. Witt du wennich kaffee?” Come inside. Would you like coffee?
“Nee, denki. I still have to feed the hogs.” Yoder sobers. “I wanted to let you know … there was an English car parked on the road last night in front of your place. Very late.”
Adam’s brows furrow. “A car?”
Appearances forgotten, I move up beside Adam, open the door the rest of the way. “Mr. Yoder, did you recognize the vehicle? Have you seen it before?”
“No.”
“Do you know what kind of vehicle it was?” I ask. “Car? Truck?”
“Well, I’m not sure exactly. Too far away, you know. All we could see were the headlamps. Martha was up sick with a cold. She saw it first and called me over. I thought it was strange for someone to be out here with all the snow, especially so late.”
“Could it have been a snowmobile?” I ask. “Someone out for a late-night ride?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve seen the snow machines.” He slips his fingers beneath his hat and scratches his head. “What was strange about it is that the driver turned off the headlamps. Sat there in the dark for twenty minutes.”
“Any idea what color it was?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Too dark to see. Too much snow. And you know my eyes aren’t as keen as they used to be.”
I nod. “Did you see how many people were inside? Anything like that?”
Another shake of his head. “No.”
Of course, it’s possible someone suffering with cabin fever went out for a drive. Teenagers out in Mom’s car for an illicit cigarette or can of beer. Maybe someone who lives nearby got into an argument with their spouse and needed to get out of the house. Things like that happen this time of year when people are snowbound. Still, a thread of worry stirs in my gut. In the back of my mind I wonder if someone is looking for Gina. Law enforcement. Or someone else.
“Do you have any idea who might’ve been out there that time of night? A neighbor, maybe?” I look from man to man, address both of them. “Do people drive out this way to drink alcohol or park? Anything like that?”
Adam shakes his head. “No one comes out this way, Chief Burkholder. Except for Mr. McKay down on Ithaca Road, all the farms out here belong to the Amish. There’s rarely a car on the road.”
“With all this snow, I thought it was odd, especially that time of night,” Yoder says. “Two A.M. I guess you never know what kind of people are going to be coming down your lane these days.”
* * *
I’ve just poured coffee into a mug when Adam enters the kitchen with his coat and boots on. His eyes slide away from mine when I look at him over my shoulder. “No school again today, I think,” he says without looking at me.
“Mr. Yoder left?” I ask.
“Ja.”
He starts toward the mudroom, but I stop him. “Would you like coffee?” I ask.
Shaking his head, he continues on. “I’m late feeding the animals this morning.”
His expression is a collage of discomfiture and that Amish shame I experienced myself so many times in my youth.
“Adam. Wait.”
He stops in the doorway of the mudroom, sets his hand on the jamb, but he doesn’t face me. For a moment, I think he’s going to keep going so he doesn’t have to deal with me or my questions. All the guilt I see boiling inside him.
“You don’t have to…” My brain scrambles for the right words. Feel awkward? Guilty? Blame yourself for acquiescing to a weakness that is fundamentally human?
He turns to me, his expression stoic. “I know what you’re thinking and—”
“I’m thinking your personal life is none of my business. You don’t have to say anything and you sure don’t owe me an explanation.”
“Nothing happened,” he says in a low voice. “I know how all of this might look. When you saw me come out of her room. We … didn’t…”
I shouldn’t be surprised. Though I don’t know him well, I feel as if I have a pretty good handle on his character. The weight of his responsibilities. The depth of his loneliness. But I understand the Amish mind-set, too. While they suffer with all the same frailties and imperfections as the rest of us mortal souls, they are bound by the rules of the church, the teachings of the Bible, and mores that are instilled at a young age, not only by their parents, but by their peers. Most Amish live their lives beneath the watchful eyes of their brethren and a community that can be judgmental.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
“Gina … I think she…” He lets the sentence trail and sighs. “Last night … she wanted someone to talk to. She asked me to stay with her for a bit, so … I did. She needed a friend. The rest…” He shrugs. “I fell asleep. I … we … did not. That’s all.”
We stare at each other a moment. A sense of respect moves through me. A slow rise of admiration. An uncomfortable tinge of embarrassment. “I wasn’t going to ask,” I tell him. “I just didn’t want you to feel awkward this morning.”
“I saw the questions,” he says. “On your face.”
“Thank you for staying with her.”
“It was not a hardship. She’s…” He doesn’t complete the sentence. Something unexpected flashes in his eyes.
“A complicated woman,” I finish for him. “And she’s led a complicated life.”
Tilting his head, he approaches me and lowers his voice. “I know she is in trouble. I know she is wanted by the police. Maybe by someone else, too, no? When I asked her about it, she wouldn’t say. Wouldn’t speak of it. But she’s frightened, Katie.”
Looking at him, I’m reminded that good men still exist in a world that sorely needs them. “I know.”