“Mr. Branson, I feel the need to remind you that it’s against the law to withhold information from the police in the course of a murder investigation.”

“I haven’t lied to anyone.” He turns the phone so I can see the screen. Sure enough, there’s a small icon for unread messages with a small 2 next to it. I watch as he thumbs a button and the text from Dale Michaels appears, along with the date and time.

Blue stares at it, grimacing. “As a pastor, it’s disturbing to know he needed me and I wasn’t there for him.”

“The content of that text makes it seem as if you had previous knowledge of the meeting,” I say.

“I can assure you, I didn’t.”

I wait, saying nothing, reestablishing eye contact, looking for a chink in his righteous armor.

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t mention the call,” he says, “but as you must know by now, I’ve got a past, too, and I’m not exactly proud of it. I didn’t want it dredged up and I didn’t want to involve the church. You know how folks are around here. They like their gossip, and they’ve got long memories when it comes to that sort of thing. Some people in this town still look at me like I’m a criminal.”

He’s right about the gossip. Having been the subject of many a malicious conversation when I was an Amish teen and left the fold, I know how painful it can be. But I’m not sure I believe the slew of explanations he’s so diligently thrown out for me, and I don’t cut him any slack.

“Are you?” I ask. “A criminal?”

“I did my time. Paid my due to society. And by the grace of God, I turned my life around.”

It doesn’t elude me that he didn’t answer my question. Rising, I extend my hand. “Thanks for your time.”

He gets to his feet and we shake. “I’m a firm believer in that everyone gets their due, Chief Burkholder, even if they don’t get their day in court.”

“It’s my job to make sure they get that day in court.”

I feel his eyes burning into my back as I make my exit.

CHAPTER 9

Julia “Jules” Rutledge locked the gallery doors at 7 P.M. Usually at the end of the day, she liked to wind down with a glass of chardonnay in her small office at the rear. She should be feeling celebratory this evening, especially since she’d sold the most expensive painting of her career earlier in the day. It was an oil she’d aptly titled Nochmiddawks, the Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch word for “in the afternoon.” She’d completed it last summer and priced it well above market value. It was an Impressionistic style and depicted an Amish girl walking alongside a tree-shrouded dirt road, her feet bare, the strings of her kapp dangling down her back. It was one of the few paintings she’d done that she actually loved. One of the few in which she thought she’d captured the magical light of dusk. The softness of the summer air. The thin rise of dust in golden sunlight. And the heart of a girl whose life was straightforward and simple—two elements people seemed to long for these days. Jules certainly did.