I take a moment to study my glass, realizing I’m not sure how to answer. How can I put my emotions into words that will make sense to this man who sees the world in stark black and white? I’m not sure I want to open that Pandora’s box because I don’t know what will come flying out.
“You’re probably the most levelheaded woman I’ve ever known,” he says. “Getting caught up like this isn’t like you.”
I look at him over the top of my beer. “More your style, isn’t it?”
He gives me a self-deprecating smile. “Why don’t we save my analysis for next time?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Don’t apologize. Honesty is one of the things I like about you.”
“I thought you liked my legs.”
“That, too.”
He gives me a half smile, and we sip our beers. The turmoil inside me eases. The silence becomes slightly more tolerable. Almost comfortable. He shatters it with his next question. “Is this about what happened to you seventeen years ago?”
My flinch is slight, but I know he saw it because his eyes sharpen. I can feel his gaze scratching at my shell, a predator trying to get to the soft meat inside.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“There are some parallels.”
I’m aware of my heart beating in my temples. The familiar clenching of my gut. It shocks me that even after all this time, talking about that day, about what happened—what I did—and the domino effect that followed, can shake me so profoundly. “Probably more than you know.”
“Is that something I should be able to figure out?”
I stare at my beer. At the shot glasses. The tabletop. Anywhere but at him. I know it’s stupid, but I feel if I look at him, he’ll know.
He waits with a patience that makes me want to splash my beer in his face. I light a second cigarette, inhaling deeply, punishing my lungs, taking my time. I don’t realize I’m going to say anything until I hear my own voice. “Two months after Daniel Lapp raped me, I found out I was pregnant.”
My own words shock me. It’s the first time I’ve spoken them aloud and they seem inordinately loud. I glance quickly around to make sure no one else heard, but the place is nearly deserted. The jukebox plays on. McNarie stands at the bar, watching the television, drying glasses with his dingy white towel. No one is looking my way. The earth didn’t move.
Tomasetti isn’t easily shocked, but I can tell by his expression this shocks him. He doesn’t know what to say.
“I had an abortion,” I say quickly. “I couldn’t . . . have it. Didn’t want it.”
He scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus, Kate.”
“I never even considered having it. Not for one second. In the eyes of the Amish, that’s considered murder.”
“Not everyone sees it that way. Especially considering the circumstances.”
“You’re the only person I’ve ever told.”
“A lot of weight to carry around all these years.”
I smile at him. “You and I, we have strong shoulders, don’t we?”
“Probably a good thing.”
I look down at my bottle of beer. “When I read Mary Plank’s journal, she became a real person to me. An Amish girl with a heart full of hopes and dreams. I was her once. All that hope. So many dreams. But I was lucky. I got my future. She deserved the chance to live her life. Long killed her twice. First he killed her innocence, then he took her life.”
“This case brought it all back for you.”
“I hadn’t thought about my pregnancy or the abortion in years. I never let myself go there. Not even once.” I’m alarmed when tears threaten. They are a female cop’s worst enemy. One that can zap credibility faster than bad police work or sleeping around or both.
Because I can’t look at Tomasetti, I put my face in my hands and sigh. “I know that in the scope of things, it’s not important. It’s over. Ancient history. The Planks are dead. Mary is dead. Long is dead.”
“It’s important.” He slides his hand across the table.
For a moment I’m afraid he’s going to take my hand. I’m relieved when he only runs his fingertips over my forearm. Too much kindness from him at this moment would crumple me.
“But life goes on,” he says. “It’s an unstoppable force. That was the hardest thing for me to accept when Nancy and the girls were killed. It’s the living who are left to suffer. A hard truth, but that’s the way it is.”
“Tomasetti, you’re not making me feel any better.”
“What are friends for?”
I manage to give him a small smile. “You probably came here to get laid, and I blabbered all over you instead.”
His laugh is deep and throaty. I like the sound of it, realize he doesn’t do it often enough. And a flush spreads over me like warm oil. “Sounds like you’ve got me all figured out.”
“Thanks for listening,” I say after a moment.
“I’m glad you told me.”
The bottle of Absolut sits half empty on the table between us. The jukebox has moved on to an old Neil Young rocker. I reach for the bottle and fill both shot glasses. There’s more to say, but we both know enough has been said for tonight.
Tomasetti picks up his glass. “Are we going to get drunk?”
“I think so.”