“How far along?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Six or seven weeks. I have to go to the doctor.”
“Okay, so you haven’t been to the doctor yet?” He doesn’t do a very good job of hiding the optimism in his voice. The hope that I’m wrong and all of this is a false alarm that we’ll laugh about later. It pisses me off.
“I took a pregnancy test,” I snap. “Last night. It was positive.”
Another silence that goes on too long and then Tomasetti says, “I guess that explains why you’ve been avoiding me.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
“I’m just trying to absorb all of this.”
I raise my head and look at him, trying to decipher his frame of mind, discern any sarcasm or dark humor. In typical Tomasetti fashion, he gives me nothing. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“How did it happen? I thought you were taking the pill?”
“I am.” That I’d fail to do that one small, simple thing, more than anything, makes me feel like an idiot. “There were a couple of times when I missed a dose. I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? How could you not know?”
“I was busy with work. I pulled a couple of all-nighters.” Misery presses down on me. I feel like crying. But I’m angry, too. Angry because he’s not making this any easier.
“I take it you’re not pleased,” I say, after a moment.
“I’m not sure how I feel. I wasn’t expecting this.”
“Neither was I.”
He’s still standing at the door, his hands on the jamb on either side of him, looking at me as if I’ve betrayed him.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” I tell him.
“I know.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
He leaves his place at the door. Instead of sitting beside me, he reaches down and takes my hand, pulls me to my feet. Hot tears sting my eyes when his arms go around me.
“I screwed up,” I whisper.
“It’s going to be okay.”
“Tomasetti, I’m scared.”
He kisses my temple, runs his hand down the back of my head. “Don’t worry,” he tells me. “We’ll figure it out.”
CHAPTER 13
Every couple of weeks I hold a roll-call type meeting with my officers. The department is small—only four full-time officers, including myself—and most days only one of us is on duty at any given time. Roland “Pickles” Shumaker is my auxiliary officer. He’s a decade or so past retirement age and usually puts in about ten hours a week, most often working the school crosswalk. I communicate with my officers via e-mail as well as cell and radio, and we keep each other up-to-date on the goings-on in Painters Mill and Holmes County. But as chief, I feel face time is vital, especially for a small department whose members don’t always see each other, for everyone to sit down and talk and maybe even do a little cutting up.
Tomasetti and I didn’t get much settled last night. We didn’t make any decisions or discuss the future or what this means in terms of our relationship. Still, I’m feeling more at ease this morning, and I realize the simple act of telling him the truth lifted a weight from my shoulders. I no longer have to deal with it alone.
I’m standing at the podium in our ragtag meeting room. Most of the reports I’ve heard this morning are about tornado damage and cleanup. We had a couple of instances of after-hours looting, mostly to businesses that sustained damage, and a couple of reports of fraudsters posing as home-repair companies trying to bilk the people whose homes were damaged by the storm.
I end the meeting with an update on the investigation into the remains found at the barn.
“Holy shit,” Skid mutters. “Death by hogs.”
“That’s something out of a horror novel,” T.J. adds.
The statement is followed by enthusiastic nodding of heads.
“Are we looking at foul play?” Glock asks.
“Even if the actual death was an accident—a fall into the pen, for example—an unknown individual may have made an effort to hide the body.” I look at Skid. “Nolt worked for a while at that big hog operation down in Coshocton County.”
“There you go,” Glock says.
“Hewitt Hog Producers,” Pickles puts in.
I nod at them and return my attention to Skid. “I want you to get me the name and contact info of everyone who worked there in the two-month period leading up to Nolt’s disappearance. Check for criminal records and warrants, too.”
“You got it.”
“So if Nolt somehow ended up in the pen with those hogs,” Glock says, “how did his body end up buried beneath that old barn?”
“That’s a twenty-minute drive,” Skid adds.
“Maybe Nolt had some kind of disagreement with one of his coworkers,” T.J. says. “Maybe there was an argument or a fight and Nolt ended up in the pen. The coworker panicked. Dumped his body in the crawl space of the barn.”
“If it was an accident, why not call the cops?” Pickles asks.
Skid grins at the old man. “Not everyone’s as smart as you, Pickles.”