“I honestly don’t know.”

“After Leroy fell into the pen, did anyone try to help him?”

“Jeramy said they did, but … who really knows? People lie to suit their needs.” Slowly, she uncoils the leather rein, letting one end fall to the floor. “After Leroy fell, Jeramy, my datt, and my brother ran down to help him. But Leroy was gone. Hit his head. Jeramy said he wanted to call the English police, but Datt forbade it. Instead, they buried him in the crawl space of that old barn.” Kneeling, she loops the leather rein around a support beam and runs the free end through the loop. “Right where those Boy Scouts found him. He’d lain there all these years. Alone.”

“You said Leroy had a car,” I say. “What happened to it?”

“After dark, Jeramy and my brother drove it down to Beach City. They found a back road and drove it into the lake.”

I look out the door at the beautiful rolling hills beyond, and I’m surprised by the twinge of melancholy in my chest. Such a sad story. A young life lost. And many more ruined. “That’s why you poisoned Jeramy?” I say. “Why you tried to poison your parents?”

“Yes.”

“What about your brother?”

She looks down at the floor, shakes her head. “I couldn’t—”

A sound from behind turns me around. Alarm reverberates through me at the sight of Reuben Kaufman standing twenty feet away, a .22 rifle leveled at my chest.

Chapter 28

CHAPTER 28

For an instant, I’m not sure if I’m more shocked by the image of Reuben Kaufman out of his wheelchair and standing on his own power—or the sight of the rifle. His finger is inside the trigger guard. The muzzle is steady. Next to me, Abigail goes perfectly still. We stare at him in silence. Tension knifes the air.

“Mr. Kaufman, put down that rifle.” I’m keenly aware of the .38 against my hip. My lapel mike at my shoulder. Either would only take an instant to reach, but there’s no way I can do it before he gets off a shot.

“I need you to put down that rifle,” I repeat. “Right now. Before someone gets hurt.” I motion toward Abigail. “Your daughter.”

Never taking his eyes from me, he addresses her in Pennsylvania Dutch. “Go to the house.”

Abigail doesn’t move. Instead, she looks at her father as if recognizing him after a long separation. “I know you were there. All these years … you knew … about Leroy, and you never told me.”

“He was a maulgrischt.” A pretend Christian. “I protected you. I saved your soul. Now go to the house with your mother and let me take care of this.”

She moves toward him.

He doesn’t take his eyes off me. “You. Get over by the hay door.”