I’ve always been aware that William was the lone survivor of a violent crime. I knew his father and four siblings had been killed, that his mother had disappeared, and the perpetrators were never apprehended. I didn’t, however, know the details until I read the file. Those details haunt me as I turn into the gravel lane bordered on either side by razor-straight rows of McIntosh apple trees.

A colorful sign welcomes me to Yoder’s Pick-Your-Own Apple Farm, where the BEST CIDER IN OHIO is one dollar a glass. I park adjacent the large produce stand. The small frame building is nestled between two maple trees that offer welcome shade in summer. Through the open window that runs the length of the structure’s facade, I see shelves filled with jars of apple butter, applesauce, and spiced apples. A dozen or more jugs of cider take up an entire lower shelf. Beyond, more shelves are dedicated to embroidered doilies, canvas tote bags, and bird feeders designed to look like Amish buggies. At the rear, handmade quilts hang on wooden arms set into the wall, the bold colors and geometric designs beckoning one to stop and browse.

I’m midway to the produce stand when a female voice calls out. “Here for another quilt, are you?”

I glance up to see Hannah Yoder standing just inside, her elbows on the counter, looking at me through the front window. She’s in her mid-thirties with a fresh, pretty face and an infectious smile. She’s wearing a dark blue dress, black apron, and a black winter head covering.

“I wouldn’t rule that out.” I return her smile. “Wie geth’s alleweil?” How’s it going?

“Ich bin zimmlich gut.” I’m pretty good. She arches a brow at my Pennsylvania Dutch. “’Sis kald heit.” It’s cold today.

I look up at the sky. “More rain on the way, too.”

“The apples will be sweet and plentiful this year.”

I enter through the side door and extend my hand. “You remember me.”

She nods, giving my fingers a firm squeeze. “Of course. I sold you my favorite quilt.”

I look around and my eyes are drawn to the quilts. Winter colors. Maroon and cream and brown. My fingers itch with the urge to touch, but I resist. They’re not cheap, and on the salary of a police chief, I can’t afford another.

“Is your husband home?” I ask.

A male voice calls out. “That depends.”

I glance to my left to see William “Hoch” Yoder emerge from a small storeroom. He’s a tall, thin man clad in typical Amish garb—black trousers, blue work shirt with suspenders and a flat-brimmed hat. This morning, he’s wearing a black barn coat.

“Hi.” I approach him and offer my hand. “Mr. Yoder.”

“Call me Hoch.”

The story behind the nickname is well known among the Amish. After William’s family was murdered, an Amish couple with the last name of Yoder adopted him. Rumor has it that fourteen-year-old William resisted changing his name from Hochstetler to Yoder, and in the months that followed, the Amish fell to calling him Hoch, honoring his wish to keep at least part of his name.