Page 50 of Fallen

“I need the video of that west-facing camera,” he tells her. “For the day before yesterday, between noon and midnight. Can you get that for us?”

“I’ll have to call the owner,” she tells him.

“We’ll wait.”

Loretta Bontrager couldn’t sleep. She hadn’t slept a wink since Rachael was killed. When she was a girl, her mamm had chided her for aykna bang hatz. For being an “owner of a worried heart,” and for fretting about things over which she had no control. Things that her Amish faith required her to leave to God.

Aykna bang hatz.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Rachael. The closeness they’d shared as girls. The laughter and love—and secrets. The memories, both good and bad. It had been almost fourteen years since Rachael left Painters Mill. In all that time, Loretta hadn’t forged another relationship that even came close to the one she’d had with Rachael. A confidante she could tell anything and not be silenced or shamed. Now, Rachael was gone. Everything they’d shared was lost. She would never again hear her voice or laughter.

Tonight, contemplating her friend’s death tormented her. How she must have suffered. The terror. And pain. Dear God, she couldn’t bear to think of it and yet she couldn’t stop.

It was nearly midnight now, and the old farmhouse was hushed. Usually, Loretta enjoyed her evening solitude, when Ben and Fannie were safe in their beds, and she had some quiet time for reflection and prayer. Tonight, the silence was a lonely companion that made her feel as if she was the last person on earth. She should have joined her husband in bed hours ago. She’d feigned tidying up the kitchen and writing a letter to her cousin in Shipshewana, but neither of those things was the truth. She knew she wouldn’t sleep and she simply couldn’t bear the darkness. Not when there was already so much of it inside her. Once she laid her head down on the pillow, the images of Rachael would come to her and the dark and quiet would become intolerable.

Even now, with the sink clean and the floors mopped, the letter written and sealed, her mind whirred with images she didn’t want to see, thoughts she couldn’t bear to ponder. For the last two nights, desperate for peace, she’d fallen to going out to the barn. Muck boots over her socks. Her barn coat over her nightgown. Lantern in hand.

It was there, among the animals, the smells of hay and earth, that she found peace. The pygmy goats had had their babies a couple of weeks ago. The kids were tiny things, soft and warm and such a comfort to hold. The old draft mare had foaled last month, too, and the filly was a lively sprite with her mamm’s sense of mischief. Even the chickens roosting on the beams above the stalls calmed her nerves.

Loretta went to the goat pen first. “Kumma do, mei lamm.” Come here, my lamb. Bending, she leaned over the low fence to pick up the brown and white baby, her favorite. The one that melted in her arms because she enjoyed having her tummy rubbed.

She’d just lowered her cheek to the animal’s muzzle when the shadow darted toward her from the darkness. Gasping, Loretta dropped the baby next to its mamm and stumbled back. She spun to run, but strong hands fell onto her shoulders, fingers digging in with enough force to bruise.

“Don’t say a word,” hissed a male voice, warm breath in her ear. “Do not make a sound. Do you understand?”

Rough hands spun her around so that she was facing him, and then he shoved her. Loretta reeled backward. Her back slammed against the wall, her head snapping hard against the wood. Simultaneously, recognition kicked, followed by a tidal wave of panic.

“You,” she cried.

Lips peeled back, teeth grinding, he moved close. “Shut the hell up,” he hissed.

She tried to pry his arm away, but he was too strong. All the while a thousand thoughts assailed her brain. She’d underestimated him. She’d been a fool for thinking he wouldn’t come for her. She’d thought she was safe. Now, he was going to kill her.

“You lied to me,” he ground out.

“No!” she squeaked.

“I heard you been talking to the cops.”

“I didn’t. That was before—”

He set his forearm against her throat, pressed hard enough to cut off her words. He was breathing as if he’d just run a mile. So close she could smell the stink of alcohol on his breath.

Unable to speak or breathe or even form a coherent thought, she jerked her head.

He eased some of the pressure off her throat, but he didn’t release her. “What did you tell them?”

“Nothing!” she choked.

He slammed his fist against the wall inches from her head. “Don’t fucking lie to me!”

The fear was like barbed wire drawn tight around her ribs. Breaths coming too fast. Chest taut. “I’m not.”

“What did Schwartz tell you about that night?”

“She didn’t tell me anything!” she cried.

His mouth tightened. Rage and disbelief in his eyes. Thinking about hitting her. Instead, he pulled her toward him, shook her, then slammed her back against the wall again, harder this time. Raising his hand, he jabbed his finger against her cheek hard enough to bruise skin.