Page 51 of Outsider

“Going to have to pull this one out backward,” Adam says.

“That’ll work.” I unfold my shovel. Using it for balance, I make my way to the driver’s-side door and dig. When Annie comes up behind me with an offer to help, I grab a palmful of snow, form a snowball, and toss it onto the top of her winter bonnet.

The girl squeals in delight. As I dig to free up the door, Gina and Adam join the fun and before long everyone is throwing snow at everyone else. That the kids are having fun seems to make the work easier, and makes me forget that my feet and hands ache with cold. I’m relieved the children haven’t noticed the bullet holes, which would surely generate questions no one will quite know how to answer. I work as quickly as I can, sweating beneath my coat now. Within minutes, I’m able to open the door.

I slide behind the wheel, trying not to notice the blood frozen on the seat. I turn the key, but the engine doesn’t make a sound. “It’s dead.”

Gina pushes her way through snow, the sling hampering her balance. “I tried starting it after I hit the tree, but it was dead right after the accident.”

“Maybe the impact caused the battery to shift and become disconnected,” I say.

There are a half a dozen things we could check, but it’s too cold to take the time. The windchill is nearly unbearable. At the moment, our priority is to haul the truck out of the ditch and get it back to the farm so it’s out of sight, and the children can get inside to warm up.

Grabbing my shovel, I go to the rear of the truck and quickly tunnel beneath the bumper. While Gina holds the shovel, I get down on my belly and attach the tug strap to the frame.

Adam and Sammy position the horses while I go back to the driver’s-side door and slide behind the wheel. Ignition on, I shift the truck into neutral. “All right!” I call out to Adam.

The horses surge forward and within minutes the truck sits on the road. I get out, remove the tug strap from the rear frame, and move it to the front undercarriage. The hood has become unlatched at some point, likely upon impact with the tree, but there’s no way to secure it. I brush away the excess snow, shove the hood down as much as I can so I can see, and I get back behind the wheel.

“Let’s go!” I call out.

Adam and Sammy lead the horses along the fence, struggling through knee-deep snow, the truck bumping along behind them. At the wheel, I steer around the deeper drifts, keeping the wheels aligned with the track of the horses.

The driver’s-side window is down, and as we head back to the house, Lizzie and Annie chatter. Adam and Sammy stay ahead with the horses, keeping the tug strap taut. Gina sits in the passenger seat next to me, making the occasional comment, but she’s mostly quiet. Her commentary isn’t quite up to her usual standards, her brash front replaced by something I can’t quite identify. Though we’re wholly alone, on a back road that’s unreachable by all accounts, I’ve noticed her looking around, her eyes scanning the tree line to the east, the township road ahead. She’s wearing sunglasses, but they don’t conceal the uneasiness I see on her face.

She’s no shrinking violet in the face of danger. She’s coolheaded and an adrenaline junkie to boot. Today, she’s not simply uneasy, but scared. Once again, I wonder if she’s told me the whole truth. If she’s hiding something I need to know.

There’s a certain cadence to an Amish home. Voices and life and activity. There’s a set routine. Chores that must be done. A house to be managed. Animals to be cared for. A farm to run. And for the children, fun to be had at every opportunity.

I find myself falling into the routine with an ease that surprises me. While Adam and Sammy muck stalls and feed the livestock, Annie and Lizzie and I clean the mudroom, where the calf made quite a mess, and take a mop to the floor. Even Gina pitches in and tackles the scouring of the sinks and toilets. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her clean and I was her roommate for over five years.

It’s late afternoon by the time Gina and I are alone. The girls have gone to the bedroom they share to read. Adam and Sammy are in the barn, bringing straw down from the loft. I find Gina standing at the sink in the kitchen, looking out the window, a glass of water in her hand. Outside, flurries float down from a sky the color of concrete.

“You were awfully jumpy today when we were towing your truck back to the farm,” I say without preamble.

Humphing, she dumps the water in the sink and proceeds to wash the glass. “Seeing the bullet holes in the back window gave me the damn willies.”

“Is that all?”

She sets down the glass and gives me her full attention. “You got something on your mind, Kate?”

“I’m wondering if you’ve told me the whole story. Or if there’s something else I need to know.”

Rolling her eyes at me, she laughs. “For God’s sake, you’re rocking that cop paranoia again.”

“I guess that’s one of the things that makes me good at what I do.”

When she doesn’t respond, I go to the counter, pull two mugs from the cupboard, and pour coffee into them. “Tomasetti and I are trying to help you. Your keeping secrets isn’t going to cut it.”

“I know.” She walks to the table and sinks into a chair, silent, and stares down at the cup in her hands. “For God’s sake.”

I wait.

“Bertrand and Mercer think I took some cash,” she says after a moment.

“Why do they think that?”

“Because eighty thousand dollars disappeared.” She shrugs. “I was at the scene. Some drug dealer had a bunch of hundred-dollar bills stashed in a safe. There were five of us. They were going to divvy it up, but the cash disappeared. I got blamed.”