She makes all the appropriate noises, even manages to widen her eyes. But it’s a practiced response. She’s not surprised, and she’s not a very good liar. “But … why would they do such a thing?”

“To harm me. Intimidate me.” I shrug. “I don’t know.”

Her gaze slinks away from mine. I wait, but she says nothing. It doesn’t escape me that she fails to ask if the men were Amish or what they looked like.

I gesture to her black eye. “I thought you might be able to shed some light.”

“I don’t see how—”

“The men were Amish. Early twenties.” I pause, push harder. “I’m betting they’re the same men who gave you that shiner and put that mark on your neck.”

Pressing her hand to her chest, she takes a step back. “Oh, Kate…”

It’s the first honest reaction I’ve seen. It’s obvious she’s hiding something—maybe even protecting someone. But who? And why?

“Who put those marks on your face?” I ask.

A laugh squeezes from her throat. “I’ve no idea who you’re talking about.”

“I think those men came to you, too. I think they hurt you. And I think you’re afraid to talk about it because you’re afraid they’ll come back and do it again.”

“Sell is nix as baeffzes.” That’s nothing but trifling talk. But her gaze drops to the floor as if she can’t lie and look me in the eye at the same time.

“Who are they, Mary?” Tilting my head slightly, I make eye contact with her, refuse to release her gaze. “Why are they hurting people?”

Her laugh is the high-pitched trill of a nervous bird. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nothing you say will leave this room,” I tell her. “You have my word.”

A quiver moves through her, so minute I almost miss it. But I’m good at reading people, their thoughts, their emotions. She wants to open up. She wants to release the ugly truth trapped inside her. But this woman isn’t merely frightened. She’s terrified.

“I nearly froze to death last night,” I tell her. “Those men are dangerous. They need to be stopped.”

“There’s nothing you can do,” she whispers. “No one can stop them. Just … live quietly and they’ll leave you alone.”

“You live quietly and look what they did to you.”

“You know nothing,” she hisses.

I try a different tactic. “Maybe I should talk to the bishop.”

“Do not speak of this to the bishop,” she says quickly.

“Why? He won’t stand for that kind of behavior.”

She starts to turn away, but I reach out and gently grasp her arm. “Mary, talk to me. Please.”

“Leave this house. Now.”