I pause to choose my words with care, because I know he’s not going to respond well to what I’m about to tell him. “Norm, I’m not discounting the threat posed to you by these notes. I think we should take this very seriously. But as town councilman, you know I don’t have the manpower to assign an officer to you, especially with this homicide on my hands.”

“I’m part of the governing body of this town. It’s your responsibility as chief to keep me and the rest of the citizens of Painters Mill safe from harm.”

“I can step up patrols—”

“I’ll go over your head. I’ll—”

I cut him off. “Norm, all you can do at this point is be vigilant about your personal safety. Keep your doors and windows locked. Keep your alarm system engaged. Be aware of your surroundings—”

“I don’t have an alarm system,” he snaps.

“Well, then get one installed,” I say firmly. “If you’re frightened, I suggest you hire private security.”

“Private security? Are you kidding?” He rises so abruptly, the chair back strikes the wall and chips the paint. “I knew better than to come in here and ask for anything from you.”

I rise as well. “Norm, calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!”

“I’m doing the best I can.”

“Not good enough. As usual.” He jabs his finger at me. He’s so angry, his hand is shaking. “If anything happens to me, Burkholder, it’s on your fucking back.” He jabs again. “Yours!”

“Norm—”

“Go to hell.”

He turns away, stalks to the door, and pushes it open with both hands. It swings wide and bangs against the wall hard enough to rattle the framed map of Holmes County.

CHAPTER 11

I’m usually pretty good at letting things roll off my back, especially when it comes to my job. A police chief invariably encounters a high level of conflict in the course of his or her duties—and a fair share of criticism. I learned a long time ago that you can’t please everyone. When you’re chief and you have an entire town counting on you to protect and serve, it’s foolish to try.

Still, my conversation with Norm Johnston troubles me as I head toward the farm. It’s not until I reach the county road that I realize it has more to do with his overreaction to the situation than his actual overt hostility. Worse, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s not telling me something. But what?

It’s after ten when I arrive at the farm. I’m preoccupied with the case, the conversations and suppositions of the day. Thoughts of work evaporate when I spot Tomasetti’s Tahoe parked in its usual spot. Anticipation swells in my chest. It seems like days since I last saw him. In reality it’s been less than twenty-four hours, but suddenly I can’t wait to see him. I park beside his vehicle, shut down the engine, and get out. It’s raining again, so I grab my umbrella from the backseat and hightail it to the house.