“One day. God willing.”

“Sadly, many widows never do. Some, of course, are too old. They have difficulty finding a suitable husband. Not you, of course.” He shrugs. “Some of the young widows have too much guilt.”

“Guilt? I have no guilt.”

“Some Amish women find it difficult to open their bodies to another man. After taking their vows.”

Had the circumstances been different—had I not been required to maintain my cover—I would’ve laughed in his face and left him with a resounding fuck off. Of course I can’t do either of those things. As distasteful and outrageous as this exchange has become, I’m bound to participate.

“I have no such guilt.” I’m alarmed when I slur the final word. It’s then that I know the light-headedness isn’t my imagination. Something’s wrong. My vision is off. I stare at him, aware that my face is hot. I can feel sweat beading on my forehead and upper lip. Not embarrassment or discomfort. More like a fever.…

Only then does the possibility that I’ve been drugged strike me. A warning bell clangs in my head. Did he put something in the coffee? I didn’t drink much, but I’m definitely feeling the effects of … something.

“I can help you,” he whispers. “As your bishop, I will counsel you. Prepare you for your husband. Teach you to be a better wife in the eyes of God.”

I yank my hand away and stumble back. His fingers scrape my skin as he lets go. “I don’t need any of those things.”

A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. A sort of dark amusement peeks at me from behind his eyes. He’s enjoying this, I realize. He enjoys intimidating people. Toying with their emotions. Manipulating them to get what he wants. Bending them to his will. Finding a weakness and taking advantage of it.

Hurting them.

I have to hand it to him: he’s good at it, at least when it comes to grieving widows and vulnerable teenagers. But I’m a cop, and at the moment it’s taking every bit of restraint I possess not to blow this whole thing for the sheer satisfaction of taking him down a few notches.

“God came to me last night, Kate Miller. In a dream. He told me your husband died because you were not a good wife to him. You had impure thoughts.”

I step back. “That’s not true.”

“I know these things. I look at you and I see a woman who is lost and alone. A frightened woman who wants to belong but she doesn’t know how to reach out. A woman who longs for the return of the faith she’s lost. I know everything about you.”

“No, you don’t,” I whisper.