I want to call Tomasetti, but I know he’s probably sleeping. I should be, too; tomorrow promises to be a busy, stressful day, and I need to be on my toes. I tell myself I don’t want to wake him. But I’m honest enough to admit that’s not the only reason I haven’t picked up the phone. I know if I tell him about the deaths of Rebecca and Levi Beiler, he’ll ask me to call it quits. Ending this assignment would probably be the prudent thing to do at this point. The problem is, I’m not always a prudent person, particularly when it comes to my job.

I don’t want to walk away from this. Not when there’s a dead teenage girl, an entire family missing, and now a middle-aged Amish couple gone, too. Maybe it’s my ego talking, the part of me that likes to win no holds barred, but I know in my gut that if anyone can get to the bottom of it, it’s me. The problem is convincing the man I love to support a decision that’s as flawed as I am.

Tomasetti knows me. He knows how my mind works. He knows, better than anyone, that I’m driven and imperfect. That sometimes I try too hard and can be a sore loser. He knows that when I sink my teeth into a case, I can’t let it go, sometimes to my own detriment. He understands all those things. And yet he loves me anyway.

I pick up my phone and speed dial his cell because I know he keeps it on the night table beside our bed. He picks up on the second ring. “Yep.”

“I’m sorry to wake you.”

I hear rustling on the other end and I picture him sitting up, leaning over to flip on the lamp. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine.” My first lie.

“Okay.”

I’m gripping the phone hard. I can hear my heart beating in my ears. The wind tearing around the trailer outside. A piece of the skirting flapping. “I miss you,” I tell him.

“You, too.” Another pause. I sense his mind working. He’s trying to figure out why I’ve called him so late.

“Everything’s not so great,” I say.

“Maybe you should tell me what’s going on.”

“I will, but I need you to shut up and listen without interrupting.”

A moment’s hesitation and then, “All right.”

Taking a deep breath, I lay out everything, good and bad—the two men, the chicken coop incident, my encounter with Schrock, and the deaths of Rebecca and Levi Beiler. “Tomasetti, Schrock isn’t an Amish bishop. For him, this has nothing to do with religion. He’s running a cult. He’s taking advantage of these people, deceiving them, controlling them through intimidation, threats and physical violence.”

“Are you on his radar?”