Page 10 of The Hidden One

I stare at him, feeling like an idiot because my heart is beating too fast. My face feels hot. The weight of an uncomfortable emotion I can’t pinpoint lies like a stone in my gut. It’s all an overreaction. What happened between Jonas and me was a lifetime ago. We were kids. Reckless teenagers. I was still recovering from the ordeal I went through at the hands of Daniel Lapp, the Amish neighbor who raped me when I was fourteen. Despite all of it, the months I spent with Jonas were profound. They meant something. I can tell by the way Tomasetti is looking at me that he’s taken note.

“Yes,” I say.

It’s as if he can’t look away now, and his gaze is burning me from the inside out. Wondering why I didn’t elaborate when I should have. In that moment, I know he’s not going to take the conversation to the next level—or ask the question zinging between us.

How close?

“Do you think he did it?” he asks.

“The boy I knew growing up? No. He was a good kid. Amish. Still is.” I shrug. “That said, you and I know people can change over time. So, I don’t know.”

“How long has it been since you saw him?”

“He left Painters Mill three years before I did. His family moved and he went with them.” I don’t mention that it was the bishop who asked them to leave. And that I was the reason.

Tomasetti is a complex man. He’s a thinker, honest to a fault, and one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. Despite his many strengths, he’s also human. He’s still healing from the murder of his wife and children six years ago—losses that would have destroyed a lesser man. The one thing Tomasetti is not is insecure.

“Sounds like he could use your help,” he says after a moment.

“I think so.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“A few days.” I shrug. “A week tops.”

He looks at the birdhouse sitting on the workbench, then at me, and sighs. “I guess that means I’m going to have to put up this birdhouse all by myself.”

I reach out, touch the side of his face with my hand. “I’m sorry I’m going to miss your birthday.”

“I thought I might skip this year anyway. Give you a chance to catch up with me.”

I laugh. “I’ll see what I can do about that.”

He sobers, gives me a long, thoughtful look. “You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do?”

“You know it.” I take his hand. “I’m not leaving until Monday, so we have the rest of the weekend. What do you say we find that pipe and get started on the birdhouse?”

“You’re offering to dig the posthole?”

“Not a chance.”

It’s not often that I call for an unscheduled meeting with my team of officers. Painters Mill is a small, quiet town, after all. We operate on a skeleton crew, dealing with neighbor disputes or bar fights, domestic violence and speeders, and, of course, the rite of rounding up wayward livestock. Not exactly life on the edge for a cop, but my officers are professional and well trained. This morning, I’m compelled to let everyone know I’ll be gone for a few days and ensure the department runs smoothly while I’m gone. My most experienced full-time officer, Rupert “Glock” Maddox, will be in charge while I’m away.

I spent most of last evening packing and digging around the internet and various law enforcement databases for information on the disappearance of Ananias Stoltzfus eighteen years ago. The case is ice-cold and there isn’t much out there. The Mifflin County sheriff’s deputy I spoke with wasn’t much help. Neither the sheriff nor the district attorney returned my calls—it was the weekend, after all—but the lack of response reminded me that I’ll be looking into the case not only as a civilian, but as an outsider. I have no law enforcement contacts in Pennsylvania, few resources, and zero in terms of backup. Not that I expect to need it. Belleville is smaller than Painters Mill, with an extremely low crime rate. In fact, there hasn’t been a murder since Stoltzfus went missing.

Tomasetti and I got the birdhouse mounted and the pole sunk into the ground. We put it near the firepit, between the house and pond, and I have to admit it looks nice. We spent every minute together, but I was distracted. I spent too much time thinking about Jonas, the boy I’d once known, mulling the kind of man he’s become, and wondering if he’s the same person I remember.

It’s just after seven on Monday morning now and I’m sitting at my desk in my cubbyhole office, putting together my notes for what will likely be a fifteen-minute meeting. My suitcase is in the back of the Explorer and I hope to hit the road inside the hour. Already, I miss Tomasetti.

“Chief?”

I glance up to see Mona Kurtz standing in the doorway. Though she worked the graveyard shift last night, she looks ready-to-take-on-the-day fresh. She was my dispatcher for several years. During that time, she earned a degree in criminal justice, devoured everything law enforcement, and garnered a good bit of training and experience from the rest of the team. She now graces the ranks of the department as Painters Mill’s first female patrol officer.

“Team is wrangled and penned,” she tells me.

“I’ll grab the branding iron.” Rising, I snag my coffee mug, round my desk, and walk with her to the closet-size meeting room.

I pause at the doorway, take in the sight of my team, and do my best not to acknowledge the quiver of pleasure. My relationship with the men and women who work for me is strictly professional. Aside from the occasional baby shower or celebratory meal, I don’t socialize with them. As chief, I’ve always felt that it’s important not to get too chummy. That philosophy in no way lessens my affection or respect for them. We’re part of a brotherhood, and when you work together as closely as we do, that familiarity doesn’t need to be shouted out, because we feel it where it counts and we know the officer standing next to us has our back.