I push my hands into warm dough. Bored with bread making, I wish for a radio, but Datt has expressly forbidden it. Instead, I hum a tune I heard in the Carriage Shop in town. A song about New York, and I wonder what the world is like beyond the cornfields and pastures of Painters Mill. They are dreams I shouldn’t have, but they are mine and they are secret.

I sense someone behind me. When I turn, I see Daniel Lapp at the door. He wears dark trousers with suspenders and a gray work shirt. A flat-brimmed straw hat covers his head. He looks at me the way a man looks at a woman. I know I shouldn’t, but I smile.

“God will not forgive you,” he says.

That’s when I notice the burgeoning red stain on his shirt. Blood, I realize. I want to run, but my feet are frozen. When I look down, I’m standing in a lake of blood. I see flecks of red on the curtains. Handprints on the counter. Smears on my dress.

Outside the window, a crow caws and takes flight. I feel Daniel’s breath against my ear. I hear vile words I do not understand.

“Murderer,” he whispers. “Murderer.”

I wake in a cold sweat. For an instant, I’m fourteen years old, helpless, terrified and ashamed. Throwing off the covers, I sit up and put my feet on the floor. My breaths echo in the silence of my bedroom. Nausea climbs up my throat, but I swallow it and slowly the dream recedes.

Sitting on the side of the bed, I put my face in my hands. I hate the nightmare. I hate even more that it still wields the power to reduce me to a frightened adolescent. I breathe deeply and remind myself who I am. A grown woman. A police officer.

As the sweat cools on my body and I rise to dress, I swear to the God I have forsaken—the God who has forsaken me—I will never be helpless or ashamed again.

Farmers begin their day early in Painters Mill. At seven o’clock sharp I stand outside the double glass doors of Quality Implement and Farm Supply and think about the conversation I’m about to have with Donny Beck. The sign on the door tells me the store opens for business at seven A.M. Monday through Saturday. Someone is running late this morning. Peering through the glass, I tap with my keys.

A short woman wearing a red smock and a nametag that reads “Dora” smiles at me through the glass. The keys in her hand jingle as she twists the lock. “Morning,” she says. “You’re the first customer of the day.”

I flash my badge. “I need to talk to Donny Beck. Is he here?”

Her smile falters. “He’s in the break room getting coffee.”

“Where?”

“It’s at the back of the store.” She points. “Want me to take you?”

“I’ll find it.” I start toward the rear of the store. I shop here every so often. It’s a nice place to pick up yard stuff like flowers, pots, hand tools. The police department buys tires for city vehicles here. But Quality Implement mostly sells farm supplies. Plowshares. Tractor tires. Fencing. Augers.