He stares at me long enough for me to notice cloudy irises that had once been blue, and a mat of drool in a beard that reaches all the way to his belt. “You’re an Englischer.”

“Yes.”

“I have no business with you.”

He starts to close the door, but I stop him. “Please, Bishop Schweider. Bishop Troyer sent me.” The statement is out before I can amend it. I add in Pennsylvania Dutch, “I just need a few minutes of your time.”

As always, my fluency in the language garners his attention. “Burkholder is a good, strong Amish name.”

Raindrops begin to tap on the ground behind me. When he doesn’t invite me inside, I ask, “May I come in? I promise not to stay too long.”

He shuffles back and I step into a small room with low ceilings and exposed beams. The odors of woodsmoke and toasted bread fill the air. But the room contains the slightly unpleasant smells of mildew, cedar, and old things, too. From where I’m standing, I can see into a small kitchen with stone walls and a two-burner stove. Atop a table, a mug of something hot sits next to a paper plate with a single piece of toast.

“I’ve interrupted your lunch,” I begin.

He doesn’t respond. I don’t know if it’s because he didn’t hear me or he chose not to. Turning his back to me, he shuffles toward the kitchen, sliding his feet across the wood planks a few inches at a time.

“You speak Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch and yet you’re an Englischer,” he says. “There’s something wrong with that.”

“I left the Amish when I was young.”

He tries to look at me over his shoulder, but his neck is too stiff. He continues shuffling toward the table. “Who is your father?”

“Jacob Burkholder.”

He turns and looks at me. “You must be Little Katie.”

I smile. “Not so little anymore.”

“What is it you need?”

“I’m working on a case. From a long time ago. It’s about Willis and Wanetta Hochstetler.”

A quiver goes through the old man’s body, as if he’d been hit with a brisk wind and the cold took his breath away. “They are with God,” he says. “The children, too.”

“Except for William.”

“God spared Billy.” He starts toward the table, shuffling. The soles of his shoes scrape across the floor, sounding vaguely like a saw through wood. “Are you going to catch the men responsible, Katie Burkholder?”

“I’ve taken one man into custody. The others were murdered.”

“God will make the final judgment.”

His progress is slow and uncomfortable to watch. I have to resist the urge to help him into the chair. I wait until he’s settled in before continuing. “Did the police talk to you about what happened that night?”