Pacing the confines of the coop, swinging my arms to keep the blood circulating, I mentally catalog the people I talked to. Mary and Abe Gingerich. Their daughter, Anna. Laura Hershberger. The women at the quilt shop. Marie Weaver. The one event that supersedes the rest is my visit with Schrock. Of all the possible culprits, he’s the one who wields the power and has the authority to direct someone to do this, all without getting his hands dirty.

If I freeze to death tonight, no one will ever know what happened. As with Rachel Esh’s death, the coroner will be able to determine the cause of death—which would probably be hypothermia—but not the manner of death, which would be homicide. I made it easy for them.

Instead of letting the thought shake me, I use it to spur my temper. Starting in the nearest corner, I feel my way around the perimeter of the coop, testing each piece of siding as I go. The structure is about twenty by twelve feet. There are two roosts at about head level. The floor is hard-packed dirt. One wall is a maze of nesting boxes where the hens lay eggs. The large door is solidly secure, so I go back to the chicken door. I lower myself to the ground a couple of feet away from it, bring my feet up and plant a double barrel kick in the center. Once. Twice. Three times.

“Come on,” I pant.

The fourth blow cracks wood. Encouraged, I kick it again as hard as I can. One of the planks splits. Half of it pulls away from the frame. Another kick and my foot blasts through the hole. A wood sliver slices my calf as I pull it back through. I don’t care. A final kick and the plank flies off and lands in the snow outside. Then I’m on my knees, shoving at the loosened wood with my hands.

It’s not a quiet process. If there’s anyone nearby, there’s no doubt they’ve heard my assault on the chicken door. Someone could be waiting for me on the other side. I pick up a split piece of siding to keep with me in case I need to defend myself.