“Has she been wearing baggy clothes recently?” Tomasetti asks. “Oversize shirts?Anything like that?”
For an instant, I think Atherton is going to argue the point. At the same time, I see his mind working, a terrible realization entering his eyes. “My God, the weight gain. I didn’t…” He blinks as if waking from a nightmare. “She picked out an alpaca poncho when we were in Santa Fe a few months ago. Wears it all the time…”
“You’re not the first parent this has happened to,” I tell him.
“I’m a doctor. A pediatrician, for God’s sake. How could I not see it? Why didn’t she talk to me? How could I—”
“The most important thing right now is that we find her and make sure she’s safe,” I tell him. “We can deal with the rest later.”
He raises his hands, sets his fingers against his temples, and presses hard, misery etched into his every feature. “If you’re right about the baby, maybe she’s with the child’s father.”
The question pings in my brain. Maybe she’s with the child’s father. And suddenly I have an idea where to look first.
I glance at Tomasetti. “The Amish cemetery.”
The doctor’s eyes snap to mine. “Wait. The Amish boy? Noah Fisher? I knew they were friends, but … she never let on that they were … Oh, Dear God. No wonder she was so upset when he was killed. First her mom and then the boy … She must have been in so much pain. I was so busy with work I didn’t notice any of it.”
Tomasetti is already striding toward the door. “Let’s go.”
“I’ll go with you,” Atherton cries, following.
I reach the porch, glance over my shoulder at him, and raise my hand to stop him. “I need you to stay here, Mr. Atherton, in case she comes back or calls.”
“But she needs me.” He stops, but he doesn’t look convinced.
“If she’s there, we’ll bring her home.” I reach the Explorer, look at him over the hood. “I’ll call you the instant we lay eyes on her. In the interim, try to stay calm and keep trying her cell.”
“All right.” He’s already got his smartphone to his ear.
Giving him a reassuring nod, I get in the Explorer, crank the engine, and back onto the street.
Tomasetti punches numbers into his phone. “I’m going to call EMS.”
“Tell them to meet us at the Amish cemetery. No lights or siren. I don’t want to scare her. Tell them we need the hospital on standby.”
I push the speedometer to seventy when I hit the outskirts of Painters Mill proper. The engine groans beneath the hood, the tires humming against the asphalt. I’m not sure what we’ll find when we arrive; I’m not certain Chloe will even be there. But it’s the only place I can think of where she might go to seek comfort. The place where her lover—the father of the child she abandoned—was laid to rest.
The Graabhof is located on the township road west of town. A gnarled bois d’arc tree stands guard next to the gate, a brave sentry scarred by hundreds of harsh seasons. The gate, which is usually closed, stands open. Beyond, a sea of plain headstones form neat rows before fading into the darkness like white-capped waves. It’s a pretty place during the day, a peaceful and quiet sanctuary to reflect and pay homage to the dead. Tonight, the darkness is forbidding, the silence unbearably lonely.
Tomasetti points. “There’s her Mustang.”
Sure enough, parked in the shadows beneath the tree is a red Mustang. Neither of us speaks as I park in the gravel driveway, blocking in her vehicle, and shut down the engine. Reaching into the pocket next to my seat, I hand Tomasetti an extra Maglite and we exit the Explorer. The night closes over us like a black hand slamming down. The wind grabs at my jacket as we pass through the gate. I can hear the chain latch clanging with every gust. Our Maglites flip on simultaneously, twin beams illuminating hundreds of small white headstones that run in neat lines, parallel with the fence. In the darkness, they look like ghosts, restless souls rising from the earth.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been here. My parents are buried just a few yards away, and I’ve attended several funerals over the years. I’m familiar with the general layout and use my Maglite to scan the south side where any new graves would most likely be located. I nearly miss the mound of freshly turned earth fifty yards away. A small heap on the ground next to the headstone.
“There,” I whisper.
We break into a run, both beams focused on the small form huddled next to the headstone. A sick feeling augments in my gut when she doesn’t move.
“Chloe!” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder! Are you all right?”
“Doesn’t look good.” Tomasetti mutters the words beneath his breath.
I’m a few feet away when she raises her head. I see the pale oval of her face. The shimmer of tears on her cheeks. She’s lying on her side with her arms wrapped around the headstone, as if trying to keep it from sinking into the earth.