My name is Kate Burkholder and I’m the chief of police of Painters Mill, Ohio, a township of just over 5,300 souls, half of whom are Amish, including my own family. I left the fold when I was eighteen, not an easy feat when all I’d ever known was the plain life. After a disastrous first year on my own in nearby Columbus, I earned my GED and landed an unlikely part-time job: answering phones at a police substation. I spent my evenings at the local community college, eventually earning an associate’s degree in criminal justice. A year later, I graduated from the police academy and became a patrol officer. Over the next six years, I worked my way up to homicide detective and became the youngest female to make the cut.

When my mamm passed away a couple years later, I returned to Painters Mill, my past, and my estranged Amish family. The police chief had recently retired and the town council and mayor—citing my law enforcement experience and my knowledge of the Amish culture—asked me to fill the position. They’d been looking for a candidate who could bridge a cultural gap that directly affected the local economy. My roots had been calling to me for quite some time, and after weeks of soul-searching, I accepted the position and never looked back.

Most of the Amish have forgiven me the transgressions of my youth. I may be an Englischer now, but when I smile or wave, most return the gesture. A few of the Old Order and Swartzentruber families still won’t speak to me. When I greet them—even in my first language of Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch—they turn away or pretend they didn’t notice. I don’t take it personally. I like to call that part of my repatriation a work in progress.

My own family wasn’t much different at first. Early on, my sister and brother would barely speak to me. In keeping with the Anabaptist tenet of excluding the wicked from the group, they’d effectively excommunicated me. We’re still not as close as we once were; chances are we’ll never again find the special bond we shared as children. But we’ve made headway. My siblings invite me into their homes and take meals with me. It’s a trend I hope will continue.

I’m anticipating the evening ahead—a quiet dinner at the farm where I live with my lover, John Tomasetti. He’s also in law enforcement—an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation. I love him, and I’m pretty sure the feeling is mutual. Like any couple, we’ve encountered a few bumps along the way, mostly because of our pasts—both of which are slightly checkered. But he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and when I think of the future, it makes me happy to know he’s part of it.

I’m doing fifty, headlights on, wipers making a valiant attempt to keep the snow at bay. I’ve just crested the hill at the intersection of County Road 13 when the buggy materializes out of nowhere. I cut the wheel hard to the left and stomp the brake. The Explorer fishtails, but I steer into the skid. For an instant, I think I’m going to plow into the back of the buggy. Then the tires catch asphalt and my vehicle comes to an abrupt halt on the gravel shoulder on the opposite side of the road.