“One untrue syllable, Mr. Golly…”

“One was born dead. The other didn’t last a week.”

He turned his face away. She turned it back.

“To whom do I owe the rape charge, Mr. Golly?”

“It’s because of the lien.”

“I’m sorry?”

“They still have the lien on our land. They’re the only non-Amish who knew we never left.”

“Who do you mean, they? The Rickreiners?”

“She still holds the lien. The son waited until Patience turned thirteen before he told us he would repossess the property unless… unless he could ‘take her to the bowling alley for a hamburger,’ the son said. He said that because his mother had just bought the bowling alley. He took her out again and again, every time saying he would take the property away if she didn’t go with him to the bowling alley for a hamburger.”

She took his beard in her fist, then felt repulsed and let it go, let him turn away and shake with shame.

“Now we know why she stuck that filthy tool in your chest.”

And now we can guess where Patience is headed with a shotgun. And why the Rickreiners are so desperate to BARRY ME.

“His mother, Babette, she knows about all this?”

“The lien is hers, legally. What the son was doing, she maybe didn’t know.”

“Why didn’t she collect on the lien years ago, before Barry started taking Patience for hamburgers?”

He shrugged faintly again. He was losing strength. She took her phone out and re-studied Oppo’s most recent message, by now nearly four hours ago.

Silver Alert: Leroy Fanta not responding to multiple contact efforts since asking for information yesterday PM about Golly Bros. property in Town of Leavings.

“Is your brother still ‘way back inside the land’?”

Jon Golly nodded and she let him rest. The sky in his window—pink-orange scorch marks on high cirrus clouds—reminded her that time was slipping away. She still had to check on Deputy Luck down the hallway. She still had to brief her night-shift deputies. And—oh, by the way—she had a family, one she hadn’t eaten supper with for over a week.

She stared out at the escaping day. It would be a terrible idea to arrest Barry Rickreiner—on just Jon Golly’s word—and then not make the charge stick. She needed Patience for that. As hideous as she found the idea, she had to give BARRY HER a heads-up. There was a plausible threat to his safety. She had to be a sheriff here.

Her stomach clenched. Her tongue stuck. Her head spun.

“Mr. Golly, is your brother still somewhere on that land?”

“Yes,” Jon Golly whispered finally. “Jim is still back in there.”

“Where?”

“Hollow of that middle feeder creek.”

That told her nothing. Hollows. Feeder creeks. There were hundreds. The Gollys owned hundreds of acres. The forests would darken in an hour.