“I don’t see it.” I study the photo, trying to imagine Hoch’s wife with brown hair. All the while, something niggles at the back of my mind.

“So we may have an ID on the killer,” he says. “You want me to add that to the BOLO?”

I can’t stop staring at the photo. You put dark hair on her, and she kind of looks like Hoch Yoder’s wife. Tunnel vision narrows my sight until all I can see is her face. Everything around me fades away. I can feel my heart thudding against my breast, my pulse roaring in my ears. From somewhere in the backwaters of my mind, I recall my conversation with the CSU technician about a hair found at the scene of the Michaels murder. This was a long hair. Blond that was dyed brown. I remember that because it’s unusual for a woman with naturally blond hair to dye it brown.

Unless she’s trying to hide something …

A cold realization augments inside me. I almost can’t believe what I’m thinking, because the possibility makes me sick to my stomach. “Oh my God.” I stand so quickly, my chair rolls back.

“Chief?”

I jab my finger against the photo. “That’s Weaver. I thought she and her mother were living off the grid because they were Swartzentruber. But the real reason is so much more insidious. Pickles, I think Wanetta Hochstetler devoted her life to instilling her hatred into her daughter so that Ruth would come back to Painters Mill and kill the men who’d murdered her family—her children—and destroyed her life.”

His rheumy eyes sharpen on mine. “Jesus, Chief, what kind of parent does that?”

“An insane one.” I look at him, my mind reeling, still trying to put all the jagged pieces together. The picture that emerges is almost too ugly to consider. “I think Wanetta became pregnant from multiple rapes that night. I think that sent her over the edge. She had the baby, but … there was a part of her that hated her daughter. Hated her because of what she represented.”

“Son of a bitch. How do you hate a little girl?”

“Pickles, this is so twisted, I can barely get my mind around it. But you mentioned the woman in that photo looks like Hoch Yoder’s wife.” I swallow something bitter at the back of my throat. “Do you think it could be Hannah Yoder?

He stares at me, shocked by my words and the story they paint. “But that would mean … You think she married her half brother?”