The only thing I know for certain is that we’re not going to get anything settled tonight. Better for me to spend it at my old house in Painters Mill. Give both of us time to cool down, do some thinking and maybe a little soul-searching.

I swing by the McDonald’s in Millersburg for a burger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake and then I head south toward Painters Mill, sipping on the cold drink and plucking fries from the bag as I drive. A sense of homecoming rolls over me when I turn onto Main Street, with its pretty storefronts and antique lampposts. I consider pulling in to the police station as I idle past, but I’m in no frame of mind to talk to anyone, even if I am feeling a little lonely. Better just to get to the house, eat and shower, and get a good night’s sleep.

I’m nearly there, when my cell phone emits a chirp. I glance down at the display, expecting to see Tomasetti’s name. I’m surprised when I see Painters Mill Police. I shove my Bluetooth over my head and catch the call on the third ring. “What’s up?” I say.

“Chief, I’m sorry to bother you at home,” my second-shift dispatcher begins, and I don’t correct her. “I just took a call from a guy using that Amish community pay phone on Hogpath Road. He says your brother was in a buggy accident and he’s hurt bad.”

“What? Jacob?” I hit the brake and pull over. “Where?”

“Out on CR 14.”

“What the hell is he doing out there?” It’s nearly six miles from my brother’s farm. “I’m on my way. Get an ambulance out there. County, too.”

“Got it.”

Glancing quickly in my rearview mirror, I make a U-turn in the middle of the street and hit the gas. I keep an eye out for pedestrians and other motorists as I speed through town, blowing the light at Main Street. The Explorer’s engine groans when I floor the accelerator. Vaguely, I’m aware of the radio coming to life as the call goes out. I think of my brother and all the things we’ve left unsaid and unfinished, and a renewed sense of urgency strikes me dead in the chest.

“Be okay, Jacob,” I whisper.

By the time I reach Delisle Road I’m doing eighty. I brake hard for County Road 14. My wheels screech when I make the turn. I drive a few yards, expecting to see lantern light or headlights or debris in the road ahead. But there’s nothing. No buggy. No horse. No sign of an accident. No indication that anyone has been here. I hit my radio. “What’s the twenty on that ten-fifty PI?”

“CR Fourteen, just off Delisle.”

“I’m ten-twenty-three. There’s no one here.” I pause. “Where’s the RP?”