It’s been years since I spoke to Jonas, and I know he’s changed. I’ve heard the rumors. After his wife’s passing five years ago, he became somewhat of an eccentric. He lives alone and has been known to carry on conversations with people who aren’t there, including his dead wife. His farm is run-down. He doesn’t exercise good manure management and the smell is terrible. He keeps to himself, and no one seems to know much about him anymore. That doesn’t keep them from talking.

I want to speak with Jonas, but I know Detrick won’t let me. I settle for the next best thing and drive to his brother’s farm. James Hershberger’s place is almost as decrepit as Jonas’s. I pray I don’t run into law enforcement as I pull into the driveway. The last thing I need is for someone to figure out I’m not as gone as they’d like me to be. A buggy is parked at the rear of the house. A Percheron gelding stands quietly with its rear leg cocked, its coat covered with snow. I park behind the buggy and take the sidewalk to the porch.

The door opens before I knock. James Hershberger stands just inside, his expression telling me I’m not welcome.

“I just heard what happened to Jonas,” I say in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“I do not wish to speak with you, Katie.”

Quickly, I explain that I’ve been fired.

He looks surprised, but doesn’t open the door to let me in. “I do not understand why the English police have arrested my brother for these terrible deeds.”

“Does he have an alibi?” I ask.

The Amish man shakes his head. “Jonas is a solitary man. I try to be a good brother, but I do not see him often. He leads a simple life. For days in a row, he does not leave the farm.”

“Do you know what kind of evidence the police have?”

“The policeman claims to have found blood on the porch.” James fingers his full beard. “Katie, my brother is a butcher. There is often blood. But it does not belong to any of the women.”

“Have you been to see him?”

“The police will not allow it.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “He did not do these things. I stake my life on that.”

“I know he lost his wife a few years ago. How did he handle her death? Did it change him in any way?”

“He was deeply saddened, of course, but neither bitter nor angry. Her death only served to bring him closer to God.”

“Does he drive a vehicle?” I ask.

“Never. He still uses the horses to farm.” He looks at me, his expression beseeching. “Katie, he would not go against God’s will. It is not in his nature.”

Once again I’m reminded of the kittens. Reaching out, I touch James’s arm. “I know,” I say and start toward the Mustang.

I don’t want to go home, but I have nowhere else to go. I consider driving to Jonas’s farm, but if the police are still processing the scene they won’t let me on the property. I wonder what forensic testing on the blood will reveal. Is it possible the shy Amish boy I once knew transformed into a monster in the span of twenty years?