The one person Tomasetti hadn’t told was Kate. He wasn’t sure why; he knew she’d be happy for him. Hell, knowing Kate she’d probably volunteer to drive up for the weekend to help him paint. But Tomasetti knew why he hadn’t told her and it was those not-so-apparent motivations that scared him. This house wasn’t just an investment or a place to live. It represented something much more important: the future.
Last summer, he and Kate had worked together on a string of missing persons cases in the northeastern part of the state. They spent some intense days together in the course of the case and one night he’d gotten caught up in the moment and asked her to move in with him. Tomasetti had never seen her look more uncertain—or terrified. He might have laughed if he hadn’t been so damned disappointed.
Kate was independent to a fault. She could be closed off emotionally. Like him, she lugged around a good bit of baggage. She might be fearless when it came to her job, but she could be skittish when it came to their relationship.
Tomasetti got that, but he wanted her in his life. He wanted to share this with her. For the first time since he’d lost his wife and children, he wanted more. A lot more. The question was, did Kate?
He’d been making the forty-five-minute drive from Richfield to the farm for three days now and he’d fallen into a routine he liked, arriving at the crack of dawn, throwing open the windows, turning the old radio to a station in Dover. He spent twelve hours the first day demolishing the kitchen. Everything had gone: cabinets, countertops, sink, and pantry and most of the Sheetrock. He’d ripped up the linoleum to expose the subflooring, and hauled everything to the Dumpster he’d rented. The crew of painters had arrived the second day, repairing the exterior siding and porch, installing new shutters—black—and finally giving the wood a coat of fresh white paint. The house no longer looked like somebody’s nightmare—at least on the outside.
Now, after three days, sunburned and sore, with a smashed index finger that was probably going to shed its nail, Tomasetti looked around and actually liked what he saw. He’d measured for cabinets, countertops, and flooring yesterday and ordered what he needed. When the materials arrived, he would begin installation. Tomorrow, a quick stop at the home improvement store in Wooster and he could start painting the interior.
It was nearly 10:00 P.M. when he walked to the cooler he kept in the hall off the kitchen. Digging inside, he pulled out a Killian’s Irish Red and carried it to the back porch. Taking his usual place on the step, he uncapped it and drank. A three-quarter moon glinted off the tin roof of the barn and illuminated the hulking form of the silo beyond. Being away from the hustle and bustle of the city had bothered him at first; the quiet seemed unnatural and made him feel isolated and edgy. But by the end of the second day, he’d begun to hear the music inside the silence: The chatter of the squirrel that lived in the spruce tree outside the kitchen window that was none too happy about the new interloper. The family of red-winged blackbirds that swooped from the spruce to the weeping willow on the bank of the pond. At dusk, the peepers and bullfrogs took over, their night song floating through the windows like some ballad you never wanted to end.
Tomasetti drank the beer and listened to the land. He listened to the buzz of the fluorescent light overhead. The creaks as the old house settled around him. He thought about Kate and wondered what she was doing. He wondered what she’d think of this place. He missed her, he realized. He wanted her here, wanted to share this with her. He took another swig and thought about calling her, but something told him to wait. He’d get a few rooms painted tomorrow. Get the house one step closer to finished. And then he’d invite her up for dinner. Tomorrow, he thought.
Tomorrow.
*
Though it’s nearly midnight and my shift is about to end, I won’t be going home any time soon. The ambulances and fire trucks are gone, but the scene is lit up by the flashing emergency lights of law enforcement vehicles and crawling with cops. I count five vehicles, including one from the State Highway Patrol, two from the Holmes County Sheriff’s office, and one from my department. The fifth vehicle is a news van from a television station out of Columbus. A pretty blond woman wearing a hot-pink jacket finger-combs her hair beneath the glare of lights and the glowing red eye of the camera.
She spots me as I’m climbing out of the Explorer, shouts an alert to her cameraman, and starts toward me at a fast clip. “Chief Burkholder? Can we get a statement?”
I’m midway to the crime scene tape when she steps in front of me, effectively stopping me, and shoves the mike in my face. “Can you confirm that this was a hit-and-run accident that killed this Amish family tonight, Chief?”
“The accident is still under investigation.” I step around her and keep going.
Holding the mike close to my face, she keeps pace with me. “Can you tell us how many people were killed?”
“There were three fatalities. We’re not releasing names pending notification of next of kin.”
“They were Amish?”
“That’s correct.”