I’m at my desk, looking down at the list of hog farmers my dispatchers collected. Orange marker in hand, I’m highlighting the names I know are Amish. Seven o’clock has come and gone. The clock on the wall taunts me with every tick of the second hand. I want to believe I haven’t left for home because I’m busy with this case. Because I’m only halfway through the list and I want to finish before I pack it in.

I’m lying to myself. Again. Surprise.

Tomasetti hasn’t called, but I didn’t expect him to. He’s home, waiting for me, trying to give me my space and wondering where the hell I am.

Way to go, Kate.

Finally, at just before 9:00 P.M., I pack my laptop into its case and head for the farm. Twenty-five minutes later I walk through the door. The television is on in the living room. I see the table set with two plates, a bottle of cabernet sitting untouched in the center, and guilt takes a swipe at me with big sharp claws. For not being here when I said I would, for being a coward. For not having the guts to face this head-on.

I make it through the kitchen and into the bedroom. I’m sitting on the bed, unbuckling my equipment belt, when Tomasetti comes to the door. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just looks at me a little too closely, trying to figure out why I can’t meet his gaze.

When I can stand the silence no longer, I put my elbows on my knees and look down at my boots. “I’m pregnant,” I tell him.

It’s the first time I’ve said the words aloud, and they shock me all the way to my core. This is the kind of thing that happens to other women. Women who have normal lives and normal jobs and live with husbands who’ve never taken the law into their own hands. Women who don’t carry a gun and have never killed anyone.

The silence is deafening. I can’t look at him. I’m terrified of what I’ll see. Of what he’ll see in my own eyes. There’s no way I can protect myself or prepare for what he might say. Even after knowing him for over four years now, I haven’t a clue how he’ll react.

“How far along?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Six or seven weeks. I have to go to the doctor.”

“Okay, so you haven’t been to the doctor yet?” He doesn’t do a very good job of hiding the optimism in his voice. The hope that I’m wrong and all of this is a false alarm that we’ll laugh about later. It pisses me off.

“I took a pregnancy test,” I snap. “Last night. It was positive.”