“What about cars or buggies? Did you hear any noises?”

“No.” Biting his lower lip, he looks at his father. “Is Mary okay, Datt?”

I glance at William.

The Amish man grimaces, then sets his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Mary is in a good place, Billy. The whole family is.”

CHAPTER 6

John Tomasetti arrived at BCI Headquarters at the Rhoades State Office Tower in downtown Columbus at just before nine A.M. He should have been thinking about his agenda for the day: the presentation he was supposed to give to a group of sheriffs that afternoon at the Marriott in Worthington, an interview at the Franklin County Correction Center down on Front Street with a suspect involved in the shooting death of a kindergarten teacher.

But Tomasetti’s thoughts weren’t on the day ahead of him as he stepped off the elevator on the fourteenth floor and headed toward his office. He’d been thinking about Chief of Police Kate Burkholder since her earlier call and a case that would take him back to Painters Mill. They’d kept in touch, but he hadn’t seen her for almost two months. Things had been good between them—the friendship, the sex—but as was usually the case, distance had intervened. Or maybe things had been progressing a little too fast and with a little too much intensity. Kate was cautious, after all. That was one of many things he liked about her.

Tomasetti, on the other hand, had been dealing with other issues. Working through them. Trying to get his shit together. Or so he’d hoped. Regardless, he wanted to see her. He’d been looking for an excuse to drive down. They worked well together, and it sounded like she could use the help.

It bothered him that she’d hesitated to ask. Tomasetti knew what she was thinking. That he couldn’t handle it. That walking into a case where a family with kids had been murdered would hit too close to home. Maybe she was right. Maybe this case would be like walking into his worst nightmare. Or maybe this was just one more hurdle on top of a hundred others he still needed to scale.

He was ruminating his options when he found Special Agent Supervisor Denny McNinch waiting outside his office door, pretending to look at the sleekly framed circa 1947 photograph of downtown Columbus perched on the wall like an old piece of siding.

“Morning.” Denny shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers and tried to look innocuous. “You got a minute?”

Tomasetti had been around long enough to know there was nothing even remotely harmless any time Denny showed up at your office before nine A.M. “Sure. Come in. Have a seat.”

“In the conference room, John.”