The information flies through my mind like shrapnel tearing through skin and muscle and bone. I force myself to calm down and think. “What did they say exactly?”
“They asked me about that day. You know, the day … it happened. I told them I was in town. I didn’t actually see Daniel. But I thought I remembered my brother saying something about him coming over to help bale hay.”
“Okay,” I tell her. “That’s good. What else?”
“Katie, they asked about you. I didn’t know what to tell them. My words got all jumbled up. I told them you were in the house that day and the boys stayed in the field.”
“Have they talked to Jacob?” I ask.
“I don’t know. They didn’t say and I didn’t ask. I didn’t want them to think I was concerned.”
Or getting our stories straight … “It’s okay, Sarah. Don’t worry. You did good.”
But none of this is good. It means the police have identified Daniel Lapp’s remains. It means they’ve questioned his brother, Benjamin, and they know Daniel was last seen at my parents’ farm. They know I was there the day he disappeared. Even more disturbing is the fact that Redmon questioned my sister without giving me a heads up. He’s not obligated, but it would have been a courtesy, since it involved a family member of a fellow law-enforcement official. The usual rationale for leaving a cop out of the loop is if said cop is suspected of wrongdoing.
I tell myself that’s not the case in this instance. I’m being paranoid; there’s no way the police could know what happened that day. That doesn’t prevent the wash of panic that rises in my chest. My siblings are wild cards; neither has experience dealing with cops. They’re probably not very good liars. I want to know if Redmon talked to Jacob. Did my brother stick to the story we discussed? Why didn’t the sheriff’s office inform me that they would be talking to my family? Will they be talking to me next?
Redmon is probably wondering why I didn’t mention Lapp’s disappearance upon discovery of those remains. In hindsight, I wish I had because my silence, and my lack of action, could be considered unusual behavior. But I’d been hoping the remains wouldn’t be identified, and now it’s too late.
I wish I could call Jacob. But like most Amish, my brother doesn’t have a phone. I resolve to swing by his farm when I finish here. Realizing my hands are wrapped around the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles ache, I force myself to relax them and proceed up the driveway toward the house.
I find Martha Schlabach and two children in the side yard, hanging clothes on a clothesline. I don’t miss the quiver of surprise that runs through her body when she spots me walking toward them or the smugness of her expression when she notices my black eye. She probably thinks I deserve it.
Martha is a few years older than me, but we went to school together for a couple of years as kids. She’s got a tanned face with patches of rosacea on both cheeks. I see a slightly receding hairline beneath her kapp and blond hair that’s gone curly and gray at her temples.
Two wicker baskets filled with wet laundry sit on the ground at her feet. A bag of wooden clothespins have fallen over and spilled onto the grass. She’s got a clothespin clamped between her teeth and peers at me over the trousers in her hands. She doesn’t greet me, but then she’d never liked me. I never took it personally, because I knew it had more to do with my relationship with Mattie than me personally. When we were teenagers, Martha had her eye on Paul Borntrager, going so far as to tell some of her Amish girlfriends that she was going to marry him. I remember feeling sorry for her, because everyone knew Paul had eyes only for Mattie.
“Guder mariya,” I begin, wishing her a good morning.
My usage of Pennsylvania Dutch doesn’t impress her. “It’s almost afternoon now.”
“Good day for laundry,” I say.
“The breeze is nice.”
I turn my attention to the two children. The boy is about three years old and blond with blunt cut bangs and a scab on his nose. He’s too little to help, but he’s trying, mimicking his mamm and handing her clothespins. The girl is about four and wears a light blue dress. Her feet are bare and dirty, and with a keen sense of nostalgia I remember a time when my own feet looked much the same way. I was lucky because my childhood was carefree. Up until my fourteenth year, it was unblemished, filled with wholesome living, of work and play, faith and family. The world has become a lot more complicated since then, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s true even here among the Amish.
“Looks like you’ve got some good helpers,” I say.
“They do what they can.” She bends to pick up another pair of trousers, snaps out the wrinkles, and hangs it on the line.
“I need to ask you some questions about the Borntragers,” I say.
“I don’t know much about them. Don’t know how I can help.”
“How long have you been neighbors?”
“Since Amos and I were married. Ten years now.” She removes a pin from her mouth, uses it to fasten a blue work shirt to the line.