We’re midway to the gate when I see the ambulance pull in behind my Explorer. “Hurry,” I say and we break into a run.

* * *

Three days later:

It’s the end of my shift and I’m thinking about heading to the farm, where Tomasetti is about to grill T-bone steaks and break the seal on a bottle of Cabernet. Not for the first time in the last few days, I’m reminded of how blessed I am to be loved by a good man and how lucky I am to know that we have a bright future to look forward to.

I’ve been thinking of Chloe Atherton on and off since Tomasetti and I found her at the Amish cemetery. She’d ingested all of her mother’s painkillers. Luckily, there had been only five pills left. Her condition had been dicey for a few hours, but she pulled through. Her father didn’t let her out of his sight the entirety of the two days she was in the hospital. There’s no doubt in my mind his love for her is strong enough to get them through the challenges they face in the coming weeks and months.

On the outskirts of Painters Mill, instead of turning north toward the farm, which is located just outside Wooster, I make a detour and head east toward Charm. Ten minutes later I turn into the long lane of the Fisher farm, park adjacent to the barn, and take the sidewalk to the house.

Miriam Fisher answers a moment later and greets me in Pennsylvania Dutch. “Guder ovet.” Good evening.

The aroma of frying bologna wafts through the open door and, for an instant, I’m transported back to my childhood, where fried bologna sandwiches were not only a staple, but a treat. “I hope I’m not disturbing your ovet-essa,” I tell her. Your evening meal.

“I’m still frying and Willis is washing up, so I have a few minutes.” Eyeing me guardedly, she opens the door wider. “Witt du wennich eppes zu ess?” Would you like something to eat?

I smile. “I’m tempted, but no thank you.”

“Come in.”

I follow her to the kitchen, stopping just inside the doorway while she goes to the stove and turns bologna sizzling in a copper skillet. “What brings you to our home this evening, Kate Burkholder?”

I tell her about Chloe Atherton without revealing the girl’s identity or mentioning the incident with the pills. “Your son loved her, Miriam. He’d asked her to marry him. She was going to say yes, but she never got the chance.”

She sets her hand against her stomach as if in pain. “Such a tragic, sad thing.”

“She was devastated when Noah died, and terrified of raising the baby on her own.”

She clucks her tongue. “Poor child. Can’t blame her for being afraid, I guess.”

“She’s going to officially relinquish her parental rights so Baby Doe can be adopted.”

Miriam goes back to her skillet, pushing the bologna around with a wooden spoon, but I can tell her attention is focused on me.