The farm is beautiful at dusk. As I pull into the gravel lane, I’m reminded of all the reasons I’ve come to love this place. It’s the kind of beauty that settles over you in layers. The old farmhouse with its kind, grandfather face. The massive maple trees that stand like proud sentinels. Beyond, the lush green of the pasture and the mist rising from the pond. As I draw nearer, I spot the lilac bush Tomasetti discovered when he cleared away brush from a bramble in the side yard. The peonies we planted together a few weeks ago. At some point in the last few days, he mounted a hammock between two trees, a chore I missed out on because I was working.
Usually, I’m looking forward to seeing him, no holds barred. That rise of pleasure in my chest when I spot his form on the dock where he’s fishing, and I can’t wait to tell him about my day and ask about his. Or that moment when I walk inside and he’s standing at the kitchen sink chopping something, smiling at me, a towel thrown over his shoulder. This evening there is no quickening in my chest. No pang in my gut because I haven’t talked to him all day and he thinks it’s silly that I miss him. It’s as if a fault line has shifted between us, opening a crevasse that’s deep and dark, and neither of us is quite sure how to traverse it.
My pregnancy has been a constant in the periphery of my thoughts since the moment I found out. A weight that rests uneasily on my shoulders, on my conscience, on my heart. I know it’s a cop-out, a delay tactic, but I haven’t let myself think too hard about what I’m going to do. I’m not ready to be a mother; I’m not sure I’d be a good one at this point in my life. I work too much, putting in long hours and, sometimes, all-nighters. I take risks. I carry a gun.
My stomach flutters uneasily as I park next to Tomasetti’s Tahoe and shut down the engine. I don’t know if it’s nausea or nerves or maybe a little bit of both. I take the sidewalk to the back door. I step inside to find him at the sink, washing dishes. He looks at me over his shoulder. His eyes are warm, but there’s no smile. On the table, he left a plate for me. A napkin and silverware and a glass. No wine.
“Hey.” I hang my jacket on the coatrack next to the door. “Sorry I missed dinner.”
“It was just leftovers,” he says. “I saved you some.”
I unfasten my utility belt and drape it over the back of a chair. I want to get out of my uniform and take a shower. But something tells me this is an important moment. I need to stay out here and talk to him. “I’m starving.”
He dries his hands on the towel and then goes to the refrigerator and pulls out a Tupperware container. “How’s it going with identifying those remains?”
I relay the events of the day as I take the container from him. It’s solid ground, and my nerves begin to settle. “I got an odd vibe from Abigail Kline. Like maybe she knew more than she was letting on.”
“You think she’s lying about knowing Nolt?”
“I do.”
“You think she was the girl he was involved with?”
“Maybe. Her age is right. She’s Swartzentruber; he was Mennonite. A relationship would have been a source of conflict for both of them and their families.”
“That fits.” He tosses ice into a glass and runs the tap. “Do you think she had something to do with his death?”
“My gut tells me she didn’t, but … Nolt disappeared thirty years ago. That’s a long time. People change. I need to talk to her again, away from her husband.” I set the container in the microwave to warm it. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“Did you get to the doctor?” he asks casually.
I shake my head. “I was busy.”
“Did you call? Make an appointment?”
“No.”
“Don’t you think you should have made that a priority?”
The muscles at the back of my neck tighten as I open the microwave and pull out the food. I don’t look at him as I pop off the lid, pick up my plate, and take both to the counter. “I was tied up most of the day. A lot on my plate right now with the storm cleanup and now these remains.” I don’t mention the lawsuit filed by the Kesters.
“You can’t put it off, Kate. I mean, you don’t have a lot of time.”
I stop what I’m doing and look at him. “I’ll go. I was just busy today.”
“We need to know if you’re pregnant. Get it confirmed.”
“Tomasetti, it’s been one day since I took the test. Time is not of the essence here.”
He looks at me for a long time before speaking. “We need to know, so we can decide what to do about it.”
The realization of what he’s talking about creeps over me like ice, a glacier rushing down from the north to crush and freeze everything in its path. I stare at him, wanting to be sure, hoping I’m wrong. “What are we talking about here, exactly?” I ask.
“We need to know what we’re dealing with. You can’t stick your head in the sand and hope the problem will go away.”
“The problem? Really, Tomasetti? Is that what this is to you? A problem?”
“You know what I mean,” he growls.
“Maybe you should spell it out for me.”
“Kate, don’t read anything into this that isn’t there. We have a situation on our hands. We need to talk about it. Deal with it. That’s all.”
“What are you suggesting?”
He says nothing.
“I didn’t get this way by myself, you know. You were involved. You played a role, too.”