Too much blood for anyone to have survived.

“There was too much blood,” I whisper.

“What?”

I look hard at my sister. “Did you go with Datt and Jacob to the grain elevator?”

She stares back, her expression stricken. “No.”

“How do you know they buried the body?”

“I heard Mamm and Datt talking. In the barn. A few days after it happened.”

“What did they say?”

“Datt told Mamm he put Daniel in the hole where no one would ever find him.”

“In the hole?” My heart tap dances against my ribs. “What does that mean? What hole?”

“I do not know. A well, maybe. I did not ask.”

In the hole . . .

The words tumble in my head like sea glass in a kaleidoscope. “I have to go.” Sarah looks alarmed. “Where?”

“To find Daniel Lapp,” I say, and hit the stairs running.

CHAPTER 25

Following the chief of police on some half-baked hunch probably wasn’t a very good idea. With the temperature dropping fast and the snow coming down in earnest, John figured it fell into the downright stupid category. He was reaching for the ignition key when headlights cut through the darkness, telling him a vehicle was coming down the lane. “Shit,” he muttered.

He’d parked a dozen yards from the mouth of the lane, but he’d be lucky if she didn’t spot him. If she looked hard enough before turning onto the road, she’d see him. He might be a good liar, but he’d have one hell of a time explaining this. Leaning against the seat back, he watched the Explorer barrel down the driveway. It hit the road with enough speed to fishtail and then sped toward town.

Relieved, John started the engine, turned up the heat and put the Tahoe in gear. He wasn’t exactly sure why he was following her. Kate Burkholder hadn’t done anything wrong. Aside from not calling in the feds or the state for help, she was investigating the murders much the same way he would have had he been in her shoes.

It was the appearance of the mysterious note that had aroused his suspicions. Mayor Brock had delivered it just that morning. Had it come from anyone other than an Amish bishop, John might have written it off as a hoax. It was, after all, ludicrous to believe Kate knew the identity of the killer as the note had claimed.

But over the years John had learned to trust his gut. Right now it was telling him she was hiding something. Did she know the killer? Was he a relative? A lover? Was he Amish? Was she protecting him?

The questions gnawed at him as he followed her toward town. It was after nine P.M.; she was probably going to call it a night. That was fine by him. He could use a hot shower and some food. Not to mention a drink . . .

But Kate didn’t turn onto Main Street. Instead she headed south on the highway, a little too fast considering the road conditions. Curious, John fell back to a discreet distance and followed her into Coshocton County.