For half of my life I’ve believed I took a man’s life. I’ve forgiven myself and asked God to do the same. I rationalized my actions, my silence, the silence of my family. Somehow, I learned to live with it. This murder makes me question all of it.

“Kate?” The doc’s bushy white brows knit in concern.

“I’m okay,” I say quickly and start toward the door. I feel the doctor’s eyes on me as I yank it open. By the time I step into the hall I’m sweating beneath my uniform.

There’s only one way to find out if the man I shot all those years ago is dead. To do that I need to talk to two people I’ve spoken to only a handful of times since. Two people who were there the day my life was irrevocably changed by violence. The day a fourteen-year-old Amish girl picked up her father’s shotgun and killed a man.

Or did I?

CHAPTER 5

I sit in the Explorer in the hospital parking lot for five minutes before I’m able to function. My hands are still shaking when I hit the speed dial for dispatch. Mona picks up on the first ring.

“I want you to compile a list of abandoned homes, properties and businesses in and around Painters Mill,” I say without preamble. “Say within a fifty-mile radius.”

“Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

“Just make the list. I’ll fill you in on the details when I get back to the station.” Putting the SUV in gear, I head for the highway and try not to think too hard about what I have to do next.

My brother, Jacob, his wife, Irene, and my two nephews, Elam and James, live on a sixty-five-acre farm on a dirt road nine miles east of town. The place has been in the Burkholder family for eighty years. In keeping with the Amish tradition, Jacob, the eldest and only male child in our family, inherited the farm when my mother passed away two years ago.

At the mouth of the gravel lane, I jam the Explorer into four-wheel drive and muscle the vehicle through foot-deep snow, praying I don’t get stuck. The familiarity of the farm strikes me as I barrel closer at a too-fast clip. A small apple orchard lies to my right. The bare-branched trees seem to glare at me in stern judgment from their white winter blanket.

I’m an outsider here, a foreigner trespassing on sacred ground. That fact has never been more evident as I enter the world of my past. I’m a stranger to the people I once knew intimately. I rarely visit. I barely know my two young nephews. It hurts knowing they’ll grow up and never know me. As much as I want to make things right, some chasms are simply too treacherous to traverse.

To my left, six milk cows huddle around a feeder mounded with snowcrusted hay. Ahead, the lane veers right where ruler-straight rows of cut corn usher my eyes to the farmhouse beyond. It makes for a pretty picture in the snow, and for a brief moment I’m reminded of a simpler time. A time when my sister and brother and I ran barefoot and carefree through wheat fields and played hide-and-seek among tall rows of corn. I recall winter days filled with hours of ice hockey with our cousins on Miller’s pond. I remember a time when our only responsibilities were milking the cows and goats, feeding the chickens, helping Mamm snap beans and, of course, worship.