“Chief Burkholder!” The councilman slaps his hands down on the tabletop. “Please. My reputation!”

I feel nothing but disgust when I look at him. “All of this is going to come out. If I were you, I’d resign my position on the council now, before they remove you.” I open the door. “Have a nice day, gentlemen.”

*   *   *

When it comes to a homicide investigation, information is never a bad thing. Sometimes even faulty information can lead to something usable. I should be pleased; I now know who was at the Hochstetler farm that night. There’s no statute of limitations on murder, so I’ll be well within the realm of my duties to arrest and hold Blue Branson.

But in terms of the things I’ve learned about the people I thought I knew, I’m left trying to make sense of something that’s absolutely senseless. All of them—Dale Michaels, Julia Rutledge, Jerrold McCullough, even Blue Branson—were pillars of the community. They were neighbors. The kinds of people you smiled at on the street. Yet they’d lived in this town and kept their dark secrets the entirety of their adult lives. How is it that no one ever really knew them? And while I may have solved a thirty-five-year-old cold case, I still have three unsolved homicides on my hands.

A tap at my office door draws me from my reverie. I look up to see Glock walk in. “I just put Branson in the interview room, Chief, if you’re ready to talk to him.”

I give him the details of Johnston’s confession. “I’ll get with the county prosecutor and see how he feels about charging him with a complicity charge. But Johnston was a minor and intimidation was involved. At the very least, he’s finished as councilman.”

He nods, but I can see his mind already moving on to the other cases. “Do you think Blue’s responsible for these more recent murders? I mean, if one or more of them decided to blackmail him. That’s a pretty strong motive.”

“I thought of that. But they would have risked incriminating themselves. Plus, he’s got an alibi for the Rutledge murder.”

“He could have hired someone.”

“Maybe. But I don’t know, Glock. Something doesn’t feel right about that.”

“So who else do we have?” He thinks about that a moment. “Hoch Yoder?”

“According to the police report, Hoch stated the perpetrators wore masks. He never saw their faces.”

“Maybe he’s been doing a little investigating on his own and figured it out.” Glock shrugs. “Or someone said something to him.”

“Maybe.” Lowering my head, I rub at the ache building behind my forehead. “We’re overlooking something.”

“What about the missing woman?”

“You mean if Wanetta Hochstetler survived and came back for a little revenge?” I say.