“You’re just in time,” he says smoothly.
“For what?”
He tosses me a pair of gloves, which I catch; then he moves around to the top portion of the door. “Meet my new workbench.”
“Looks solid.” I go to the opposite end of the door.
“Found it at the junk shop out by the feed store.”
“One man’s junk is another man’s treasure.”
“Think we can lift it onto the frame?” He bends.
I do the same. “Never met a door I couldn’t handle.”
On the count of three we lift. The door is heavy, with a smooth top and a smattering of nicks. Grunting with effort, we shuffle right and lower it onto the frame.
I run my hand over the top. “Good find, Tomasetti.”
“That’s what I was thinking when I saw you walk in.”
I can’t help it; I laugh. “You’re so full of it.”
He crosses to me, puts his arms around my waist, and presses a kiss to my mouth. He smells of sawdust and man sweat and this morning’s aftershave.
“What’s in the bag, Chief?”
“And I thought I was going to get it inside before you noticed.” I pluck the pencil from behind his ear and tuck it into his breast pocket.
“No such luck.”
I lift the bag and hand it to him, knowing fully I’m grinning like a fool. Feeling too serious because it’s suddenly vastly important that I get this right, and that he like the gift.
“Happy birthday,” I tell him, uncomfortable because my cheeks are hot. “A few days early.”
Arching a brow, wondering about the premature giving of the gift, he reaches into the bag and pulls out the birdhouse. It’s a rustic work of art made with repurposed barn wood, rusty tin shingles, and cedar perches, all of it constructed in the shape of an old German round barn.
“Nice workmanship.” He carries it to the newly installed bench, sets it down, and steps back to admire it.
“Took me a week to make it,” I tell him, deadpan.
His mouth twitches, but he’s looking at me a little too closely. Tomasetti is an astute man; he knows I’ve got something on my mind. But he’s also got a sense for timing and he knows this isn’t the right moment to query.
“Going to look nice in the backyard,” he says.
“Or out by the firepit,” I tell him.
He nods. “I’ve got some steel pipe around here somewhere. I’ll need to pick up a couple bags of concrete at the hardware store. If you dig the posthole, I’ll mount it.”
Suddenly unable to hold his gaze, I go to the birdhouse and run my hand over the roof. “It’s a purple martin house,” I tell him. “They like to nest in open areas, away from trees, with the birdhouse at least twenty feet off the ground.” I’m not a habitual blatherer, but I can’t seem to stop.
Noticing my discomfort, he approaches me, sets his hands on my shoulders, and tilts his head to snag my gaze. “Something on your mind, Chief?”
My eyes meet his and in that instant the floor beneath my feet seems to crumble so that I don’t feel as if I’m standing on solid ground. I’m keenly aware of the warmth of his hands coming through the fabric of my shirt. My pulse throbbing at my throat. We’ve come a long way since we met. We’ve learned to trust. We’ve learned to love. To appreciate. Still, there are times when I feel as if I don’t deserve this. To be this happy. To love this profoundly.
“I think I have to go to Pennsylvania,” I say.
His brows go up in surprise. “A case?”
“Not an official case.”
I tell him about the three Amish men I met with earlier and lay out everything they told me about the discovery of human remains and Jonas Bowman. “I called the sheriff’s department in Mifflin County. They’ve charged him with second-degree homicide.”
“Serious charge.” He thinks about that a moment. “Bowman is from Painters Mill?”
I nod. “His family. I knew them when I was young.”
I can tell by the way he’s looking at me he knows there’s more to the story. That there’s something I’m not telling him. That it’s important. He also knows I’m holding back and he’s not quite sure how to get me to talk. Timing, I think, and I’m glad Tomasetti has it down pat.
“You were close?” he asks.
I stare at him, feeling like an idiot because my heart is beating too fast. My face feels hot. The weight of an uncomfortable emotion I can’t pinpoint lies like a stone in my gut. It’s all an overreaction. What happened between Jonas and me was a lifetime ago. We were kids. Reckless teenagers. I was still recovering from the ordeal I went through at the hands of Daniel Lapp, the Amish neighbor who raped me when I was fourteen. Despite all of it, the months I spent with Jonas were profound. They meant something. I can tell by the way Tomasetti is looking at me that he’s taken note.
“Yes,” I say.
It’s as if he can’t look away now, and his gaze is burning me from the inside out. Wondering why I didn’t elaborate when I should have. In that moment, I know he’s not going to take the conversation to the next level—or ask the question zinging between us.
How close?
“Do you think he did it?” he asks.
“The boy I knew growing up? No. He was a good kid. Amish. Still is.” I shrug. “That said, you and I know people can change over time. So, I don’t know.”
“How long has it been since you saw him?”
“He left Painters Mill three years before I did. His family moved and he went with them.” I don’t mention that it was the bishop who asked them to leave. And that I was the reason.
Tomasetti is a complex man. He’s a thinker, honest to a fault, and one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. Despite his many strengths, he’s also human. He’s still healing from the murder of his wife and children six years ago—losses that would have destroyed a lesser man. The one thing Tomasetti is not is insecure.
“Sounds like he could use your help,” he says after a moment.
“I think so.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“A few days.” I shrug. “A week tops.”
He looks at the birdhouse sitting on the workbench, then at me, and sighs. “I guess that means I’m going to have to put up this birdhouse all by myself.”
I reach out, touch the side of his face with my hand. “I’m sorry I’m going to miss your birthday.”
“I thought I might skip this year anyway. Give you a chance to catch up with me.”
I laugh. “I’ll see what I can do about that.”
He sobers, gives me a long, thoughtful look. “You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do?”
“You know it.” I take his hand. “I’m not leaving until Monday, so we have the rest of the weekend. What do you say we find that pipe and get started on the birdhouse?”
“You’re offering to dig the posthole?”
“Not a chance.”
* * *
It’s not often that I call for an unscheduled meeting with my team of officers. Painters Mill is a small, quiet town, after all. We operate on a skeleton crew, dealing with neighbor disputes or bar fights, domestic violence and speeders, and, of course, the rite of rounding up wayward livestock. Not exactly life on the edge for a cop, but my officers are professional and well trained. This morning, I’m compelled to let everyone know I’ll be gone for a few days and ensure the department runs smoothly while I’m gone. My most experienced full-time officer, Rupert “Glock” Maddox, will be in charge while I’m away.