We both startle at the sound of Abe’s voice. I turn to find him standing in the kitchen doorway. He stares at me without expression, his eyes as lifeless as a mannequin’s.

“You think you know so much,” he says quietly. “You know nothing of the way things work here. Nothing.”

“Then help me understand,” I say back. “Talk to me.”

“Leave us alone.” He motions toward the door. “Go.”

Uneasiness pricks the back of my neck when I notice the large bandage encompassing his right hand. The dime-size spot of blood.

“What happened to your hand?” I ask.

Mary turns away. A sob escapes her. Abe leaves his place at the doorway and moves closer.

No one answers for the span of a full minute. I’m aware of the fire crackling. Sleet striking the window on the west side of the house. The steady thrum of my heart. That little voice in the back of my head warning me to tread carefully.

“An accident,” the Amish man tells me. “In the workshop.”

I look from Abe to Mary and back to Abe. “You’re lying.”

Anger flashes in his eyes, but it’s laced with something else I can’t quite read. Fear? Panic? His face is such a jumble of emotions I can’t discern which.

“You did this. You!” He looks down at his hand. “All the questions and sticking your nose in places it doesn’t belong. Look at what you’ve stirred up. Look what you’ve done to us.”

“Is this the way you want to live your lives? In fear?” I motion toward Mary. “Men coming into your home and hurting you?”

“No!”

“The people who did this need to be stopped.”

“By you?” His smile verges on nasty. “What can you do?”

“Not me,” I tell him. “The police.”

“The English police.” He spits the words with disdain. “Stupid woman.” Abe stalks to the door, opens it using his uninjured hand. “Leave us. Now. Stay away from my wife. Stay away from me. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

Never taking my eyes from his, I cross to the door. Instead of going through it, I loosen his grip, close it, and turn to face him. “That isn’t the Amish way.”

Abe narrows his eyes, cocks his head. “You don’t act like an Amish woman.”

“I’m as Amish as you are,” I shoot back. “But I don’t tolerate violence. Evidently, you do.”

He looks down at the floor.

I wait.

“They came here,” Mary says after a moment, “two nights ago.”

“Who?”

The couple exchanges a look. Mary turns away and crosses to the door, twists the knob lock. There’s no bolt lock.

Abe sighs tiredly and looks away. “Can’t say.”

“Were they on snowmobiles?” I ask.

When he doesn’t answer, Mary turns to face me. “Ja.”

“Why did they come here?”