She blinks rain from her eyes, looking at me as if I’m speaking some language she doesn’t understand.

“It’s going to be all right,” I tell her.

“That’s what Hoch always says,” she whispers. “Only it’s not, is it?”

“No,” I tell her. “It’s not.”

Looping my arm around hers, I guide her to the house.

*   *   *

It’s past noon when I leave the Yoder place, and I’m so exhausted, I can barely see straight as I drive home. I park in my usual spot and drag myself to the door. Inside, I drape my mud-spattered slicker on the coatrack. My boots and slacks are caked with mud, so I take them off at the door and carry both to the laundry room. In the bedroom, I drop my holster and .38 onto the night table next to the bed. I lose the rest of my clothes on the way to the shower and spend fifteen minutes washing away the remnants of a day I’d like nothing more than to forget. I stumble to the bedroom naked and crawl between sheets that smell like Tomasetti. I curl up in the essence of him and tumble into a hard, troubled sleep.

I dream of Hoch Yoder. I’m Amish and my datt has brought Jacob and Sarah and me to Yoder’s Pick-Your-Own Apple Farm for apple butter, cider, and a bushel of McIntosh apples. I’m happy to be there, looking forward to playing hide-and-seek. The three of us run into the orchard, calling out to each other, hiding among the trees. I’ve found the perfect hiding place when the orchard goes silent and dark. I can no longer hear my siblings. Frightened, I leave my spot, but no matter how hard I search, I can’t find them. Thunder rumbles and the wind picks up, warning me of a storm. When I look up, the sun is black and the rain is red, falling onto me like blood from the sky.

“Kate. Hey. Kate.”

I wake to find Tomasetti leaning over me. One hand braced on the headboard, the other warm against my shoulder. Disoriented, unnerved by the dream still so vivid in my mind, I sit up quickly. Hazy light slants in through the windows and I realize with some surprise I don’t know if it’s morning or afternoon or somewhere in between.

“Hey.” My voice is clogged, so I clear it.

“You were thrashing around.” Tomasetti tilts his head as if to get a better look at my face. “Bad dream?”

“Yeah.” Not making eye contact with him, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and scrub my hand over my face. “What time is it?”

“After six.”

I look at him over the tops of my fingertips and smile. “A.M. or P.M.?”

He smiles back. “P.M.”

“I have to go.” I start to rise.

But he presses me back. “Whoa.”