“Of course.”

“You think one of the gentle people is responsible for this sin?” Defensiveness rings in Isaac’s voice.

He is referencing the Amish community. They are for the most part a pacifistic culture. Hardworking. Religious. Family oriented. But I know anomalies occur. I, myself, am an anomaly.

“I don’t know.” I rise and nod at T.J. “Thank you both for your time. We’ll see ourselves out.”

Isaac follows us through the living room and opens the door for us. As I step onto the porch, he whispers, “Is he back, Katie?”

The question startles me, but I know I’ll hear it again in the coming days. It’s a question I don’t want to ponder. But Isaac remembers what happened sixteen years ago. I was only fourteen at the time, but I remember, too. “I don’t know.”

But I’m lying. I know the person who killed that girl is not the same man who raped and murdered four young women sixteen years ago.

I know this because I killed him.

Cumulus clouds rimmed with crimson churn on the eastern horizon when I park the Explorer on the shoulder behind T.J.’s cruiser. The crime scene tape is incongruous against the trees, locust posts and barbed wire. The ambulance is gone. So is Doc Coblentz’s Escalade. Glock stands at the fence, looking out across the field as if the snow whispering across the jagged peaks of earth holds the answers we all so desperately need.

“Go home and get some sleep,” I say to T.J. His shift began at midnight. In light of the murder, sleep is about to become a rare commodity for all of us.

I shut down the engine. The cab seems suddenly quiet without the blast of the heater. He reaches for the door handle, but doesn’t open it. “Chief?”

I look at him. His little-brother eyes are troubled. “I want to catch this guy.”

“Me, too.” I open my door. “I’ll call you in a few hours.”

He nods and we get out of the Explorer. I start toward Glock, but my mind is still on T.J. I hope he can handle this. I have a terrible feeling the body he found this morning isn’t the last.

Behind me I hear T.J. start his cruiser and pull away. Glock glances in my direction. He doesn’t even look cold.

“Anything?” I ask without preamble.

“Not much. We bagged a gum wrapper, but it looked old. Found a few hairs in the fence. Long strands, probably hers.”

Glock is about my age with military short hair and two-percent body fat on a physique that puts Arnold Schwarzenegger to shame. I hired him two years ago, earning him the honor of becoming Painters Mill’s first African-American police officer. A former MP with the Marine Corps, he’s a crack shot, possesses a brown belt in karate, and he doesn’t take any shit from anyone, including me.

“Find any prints?” I ask. “Tire tracks?”

He shakes his head. “Scene was pretty trampled. I was going to try to lift some impressions, but it doesn’t look promising.”