It’s past noon when I leave the Yoder place, and I’m so exhausted, I can barely see straight as I drive home. I park in my usual spot and drag myself to the door. Inside, I drape my mud-spattered slicker on the coatrack. My boots and slacks are caked with mud, so I take them off at the door and carry both to the laundry room. In the bedroom, I drop my holster and .38 onto the night table next to the bed. I lose the rest of my clothes on the way to the shower and spend fifteen minutes washing away the remnants of a day I’d like nothing more than to forget. I stumble to the bedroom naked and crawl between sheets that smell like Tomasetti. I curl up in the essence of him and tumble into a hard, troubled sleep.
I dream of Hoch Yoder. I’m Amish and my datt has brought Jacob and Sarah and me to Yoder’s Pick-Your-Own Apple Farm for apple butter, cider, and a bushel of McIntosh apples. I’m happy to be there, looking forward to playing hide-and-seek. The three of us run into the orchard, calling out to each other, hiding among the trees. I’ve found the perfect hiding place when the orchard goes silent and dark. I can no longer hear my siblings. Frightened, I leave my spot, but no matter how hard I search, I can’t find them. Thunder rumbles and the wind picks up, warning me of a storm. When I look up, the sun is black and the rain is red, falling onto me like blood from the sky.
“Kate. Hey. Kate.”
I wake to find Tomasetti leaning over me. One hand braced on the headboard, the other warm against my shoulder. Disoriented, unnerved by the dream still so vivid in my mind, I sit up quickly. Hazy light slants in through the windows and I realize with some surprise I don’t know if it’s morning or afternoon or somewhere in between.
“Hey.” My voice is clogged, so I clear it.
“You were thrashing around.” Tomasetti tilts his head as if to get a better look at my face. “Bad dream?”
“Yeah.” Not making eye contact with him, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and scrub my hand over my face. “What time is it?”
“After six.”
I look at him over the tops of my fingertips and smile. “A.M. or P.M.?”
He smiles back. “P.M.”
“I have to go.” I start to rise.
But he presses me back. “Whoa.”
“I didn’t intend to sleep this long.”
“That’s what you get for staying up all night.”
He’s wearing an exquisitely cut charcoal suit with a light gray shirt and the tie I bought him for Father’s Day last summer. I know he hates that tie; I have the fashion sense of a toad, especially when it comes to dressing a man. But I know he wears it because he loves me.
Lowering himself onto the bed next to me, he puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me against him. “I tried to wake you for dinner, but you were out cold.”
“You know that’s no reflection on your cooking, right?”
He smiles. “I picked up a sandwich at Leo’s for you.”
I make an exaggerated sound of disappointment, wondering if he has any idea how comforted I am by his presence. “You know we’re putting Leo’s kids through college, don’t you?”
“You know his name isn’t really Leo, right?”
That makes me laugh.
“That’s better.”
“Where are you going?”
“Dinner with the brass.” He smoothes a strand of hair from my face. “Do you want to talk? I have a few minutes.”
I shake my head. “No.”
“I heard what happened to Hoch Yoder. It was on the news.” He leans close and presses a kiss to my forehead. “I’m sorry. I know you liked him.”
“Are they calling it a suicide?”
“Yeah.”
Talk of the case reminds me that I lost half a day and how much I have to do. I try to rise again, but he stops me.
“Wait.” Gently, he wraps his fingers around my biceps and turns me to him.
I look up at him. “Tomasetti, I have morning breath.”
“Do I look even remotely concerned about that?”
He sets his mouth against mine and I melt into him. My arms go around his neck and I pull him closer. I kiss him hard, using my tongue, wanting more. He kisses me back in kind, and in an instant I’m swept away. It’s crazy, but even as he holds me, I feel an inexplicable rise of desperation, of wanting that has nothing to do with physical needs, and I wonder how it is that my love for him can be so all-encompassing.
After a moment, he pulls away. His face is scant inches from mine. His pupils are dilated, his mouth wet. “I have to tell you something.” His voice is low and rough, his nostrils flaring, but he isn’t smiling. “Before you hear it on the news.”
Something cold skitters up my back. “What?”
“Joey Ferguson is dead.”
I hear the words as if I’m standing in some vast canyon, and they echo off rocky cliffs. I’m so shocked that it takes a moment for the words to register. “Dead? How?”
“He was shot outside a bar in Cleveland. Execution style. Passerby found his body a few hours ago.”
I stare at him, stunned, not sure what to make of it. The silence is deafening. “Did the cops get the shooter?”
“No.”
I’m suspicious by nature, and no matter how much I love him, I know him. I know what he’s capable of. And I have no choice but to ask the one question I fear most. “Did you have anything to do with it?”
He takes the question in stride, as if knowing I would ask. “No.”
A sense of relief unravels the knot of tension at the back of my neck. Still, I know there’s a possibility that he’s lying. To protect me. To protect himself.
“All right,” I hear myself say.
“I wanted you to hear it from me.”
“Who’s handling the case?”
“Cleveland PD.”