T.J. and I enter the house. Always respectful, T.J. removes his hat.

“Would you like coffee or hot tea?” Isaac asks.

I’d give up my side arm for a cup of hot coffee, but decline the offer. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about something that happened last night.”

He motions toward the kitchen. “Come sit next to the stove.”

Our boots thud hollowly on the hardwood floor as the three of us move into the kitchen. A rectangular wood table covered with a blue-and-white-checkered tablecloth dominates the room. In its center, a glass lantern flickers, casting yellow light onto our faces. The smell of kerosene reminds me of my own childhood home, and for a moment I’m comforted by that.

Wood scrapes against the floor as the three of us pull out chairs and sit. “We received a call last night about some of your livestock,” I begin.

“Ah. My milk cows.” Isaac shakes his head in self-deprecation, but I can tell by his expression he knows I didn’t come here at five A.M. to censure him about a few wayward cattle. “I have been working on the fence.”

“This isn’t about the livestock,” I say.

Isaac looks at me and waits.

“We found the body of a young woman in your field last night.”

Across the room, Anna gasps. “Mein gott.”

I don’t look at her. My attention is focused on Isaac. His reaction. His body language. His expression.

“Someone died?” His eyes widen. “In my field? Who?”

“We haven’t identified her yet.”

I see his mind spinning as he tries to absorb the information. “Was it an accident? Did she succumb to the cold?”

“She was murdered.”

He leans back in the chair as if pushed by some invisible force. “Ach! Yammer.”

I glance toward his wife. She meets my gaze levelly now, her expression alarmed. “Did either of you see anything unusual last night?” I ask.

“No.” He answers for both of them.

I almost smile. The Amish are a patriarchal society. The sexes are not necessarily unequal, but their roles are separate and well defined. Usually, this doesn’t bother me. This morning, I’m annoyed. The unspoken Amish convention does not apply when it comes to murder, and it’s my job to make that clear. I give Anna a direct look. “Anna?”

She approaches, wiping her chapped hands on her apron. She’s close to my age and pretty, with large hazel eyes and a sprinkling of freckles on her nose. Plain suits her.

“Is she Amish?” she asks in Pennsylvania Dutch, the Amish dialect.

I know the language because I used to speak it, but I answer in English. “We don’t know,” I tell her. “Did you see any strangers in the area? Any vehicles or buggies you didn’t recognize?”

Anna shakes her head. “I didn’t see anything. It gets dark so early this time of year.”

It’s true. January in northeastern Ohio is a cold and dark month.

“Will you ask your children?”