Watching her closely, I sip the coffee without tasting it, hoping I’m wrong, knowing I’m not. “Cabinet door must have been pretty angry.”

She laughs self-consciously, her hand fluttering to the abrasion on her neck. “Well, that’s just crazy talk.”

I lower my voice. “Who did that to you?”

Her eyes dart left. I glance over her shoulder to see the Amish man staring at us through the serving window between the counter area and the kitchen in the rear.

I let my gaze slide away from his and address Mary loudly enough for him to hear. “I’m willing to bus tables. Or wash dishes if that’s what you need.”

She blinks, then I see her shoulders relax. “You’ll have to come back when the owner’s here.”

“Can I fill out an application?” I ask.

Gathering herself, she turns to the man watching us. “Do you know when Mr. Pelletier will be here?”

He shrugs. “Tomorrow, I guess.”

Nodding, she turns her attention back to me. “You’ll have to come back then.”

I bring the cup to my mouth. “Come to my trailer when you get off,” I whisper.

“Can’t.” Using the damp towel clutched in her hand, she wipes the counter. “They’ll know.”

“Who?”

Wiping vigorously, she shakes her head. “Can’t talk about it,” she says. “Please, just leave.”

“I can help you.”

“No one can help,” she whispers. “No one.”

*   *   *

On the short ride to The Calico Country Store, Mary Gingerich’s words replay uneasily in my head. They’ll know. Who the hell was she talking about? Schrock? His followers? The man in the kitchen? I think about the marks on her face and neck. Who would do such a thing, and why? Is physical violence somehow part of this community? If so, to what end? Does it have something to do with Rachel Esh? She had been living with the Gingeriches at the time of her death.

It’s nearly ten A.M. when I reach The Calico Country Store. The cowbell on the door jingles merrily when I enter. I’m greeted by the aromas of cinnamon bread and cardamom. It’s a pleasant, homey space that beckons one to leave her problems at the door and come in for a decadent snack, a bit of shopping, and some harmless gossip.

There are no customers in the store this morning. A Mennonite girl stands behind the cash register, reading an inspirational romance novel. She glances up at the sound of the bell and smiles.

“Hi,” I greet her. “Is Laura around?”

The girl points toward the rear of the store. “She’s at the sewing table with the other women.”

“Danki.”