I look at her, searching for some semblance of Hannah Yoder, loving and supportive wife of Hoch Yoder. The Amish woman who’d comforted her husband and brought us cider and cookies. Tonight, there’s no trace of her. It’s as if in the last hours, she’s become another person. The familiar stranger I’ve never met. A stone-cold killer capable of marrying her own brother in order to carry out some twisted agenda.

“I know you murdered Dale Michaels,” I tell her. “I know you murdered the others, too. Jerrold McCullough and Jules Rutledge.”

She accepts my statement with a chilling calm and without defending herself. I hold her stare, and I realize that while she’s not foaming-at-the-mouth crazy, she is insane—and a sociopath. The lives she took—the suffering she caused—mean nothing to her. A mission to be achieved. An errand to be checked off her to-do list. There’s a vital part of her missing. The part that makes us human and sets us apart from the animals. Ruth Weaver isn’t human, at least not in any meaningful way. She’s an animal—the kind that kills and eats its young.

“We’ve got your DNA, Ruth. All the evidence we need to put you away for the rest of your life,” I tell her. “We’ve got you dead to rights on multiple charges. Do you understand that?”

I give the words time to sink in, but she doesn’t argue or deny or defend. She doesn’t try to make excuses. Her expression doesn’t alter. She doesn’t seem too concerned about any of it. “I understand.”

“Did you kill William, too?” I ask after a moment.

Her only reply is a cold stare and a slight curve of her mouth, and I can’t help but think that she’s enjoying her fifteen minutes of fame. This game that’s finally reached its climax. A lifetime of hatred come to fruition. Like a serial killer whose overriding desire is to get caught so she can confess her sins to the people who fully appreciate her special skill set.

“Why now?” I ask. “After all these years?”

“Because she died. It was time.”

“Your mother? Becky Weaver?”

“Yes.”

“How did you find them?”

“I kept tabs on them.” She shrugs. “I used the computer at the library. There were photos over the years. In the newspaper and such. The art gallery. The housing development. The church. It wasn’t easy, but I’m a patient woman and I had plenty of time.”

I nod. “Why did you kill them, Ruth? I’m trying to understand.”