“You think because she was a woman she isn’t guilty? Really, Chief Burkholder? Are you that naïve? Let me tell you about Jules Rutledge. She stood by, watching and laughing as the men took turns brutalizing my mother. She was no different, no better. Worse, perhaps, because she was a woman.” Her gaze meets mine with such intensity that I have the sense of being sucked down into a bottomless black pit, a vortex, and I know something terrible awaits me at the end of it. “They deserved what I did to them. All of them. I have no regrets. My mother always said God would mete out their punishment and that punishment would be just. But she was Amish. I listened to her, but I never believed it. I knew that one day, I would be the one to make things right.”

I think of my own past—the things that happened to me and the things I did about it—and I struggle not to draw parallels, however thin.

“The fall into the well broke her spine,” she tells me. “She had no idea how long she lay there, hours or days. But it wasn’t her day to die. Eventually a local Swartzentruber family came by.” Her mouth curves again. “Sent by God, according to her.” But she waves off the notion. “The Amish family heard her cries and pulled her out. They took her to the midwife. Of course, word got around. Eventually the Englischer police were called, but my mother couldn’t remember who she was or what happened to her. She couldn’t even remember her name. The police assumed she was a local and eventually forgot about her.

“The Swartzentruber family—the Weavers—took her in. Gave her food and clothing and a place to sleep. But there was no love lost between them. You see, my mother…” She lowers her voice as if she’s about to utter words best not spoken too loudly. “Sie is weenich ad.” She was off in the head.

“Six weeks later, she found out she was with child.” The twisting of her lips is a grotesque mask in the glare of the fluorescent lights. She’s an attractive woman, but there’s something ugly beneath the surface of that pretty face, like a hideous scar camouflaged by makeup. “A few years after she gave birth to me, the Swartzentrubers began moving to New York. They were having some trouble with the government. Mamm didn’t go with them.”

“Why not?” I ask.