Page 25 of Breaking Silence

I still miss them, a whisper inside me replies, but I don’t give it voice. “I missed them a lot.”

“If you missed them, why didn’t you confess your sins and stay? How could you leave them?”

How could I, indeed? It’s a question I’ve asked myself a thousand times over the years. My answer is always the same: “I didn’t have a choice.”

Her eyes flick to mine. In their depths I see the burn of curiosity. I can tell she wants to ask me about my transition from Amish to English. But Salome is too well mannered to pry any more deeply than she already has.

“I think about what it would be like sometimes,” she says after a moment.

“The grass isn’t always greener on the other side of the fence.”

Tossing me a sideways look, she laughs. “That’s a funny way to put it.”

Because I don’t want to encourage her one way or another, I say nothing.

Our feet are silent on the damp earthen floor as she takes me to a wall of shelving filled with dusty canning jars. Each is meticulously labeled: PEARS, APPLES, BEETS, GREEN BEANS, SAUSAGE, RHUBARB. I watch as she moves aside a jar and pulls one from the back. Unscrewing the lid, she peeks inside. “Oh no!”

“What is it?”

Eyes wide and searching, she shoves the open mason jar at me so I can look inside. “Datt’s money. It’s gone. Someone took it!”

I mentally kick myself for having let her pick up the jar. “Set it down, Salome. I’m going to take the jar and have it processed for prints.” Even in the dim light, I can see recent smudges in the dust. Fingerprints, maybe. Damn. Damn. Damn.

She looks distressed as she places the jar back on the shelf. “Who would do such a thing? How did they get down here in the cellar without us seeing them?”

“I don’t know.” I think about that a moment. “Do you know how much money was in there?”

She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t even know it was here if I hadn’t seen Datt drop in some money when I was getting sausage for Mamm.”

“When’s the last time you saw it?”

She traps her lower lip with her teeth. “I don’t know. I never pay attention.”

I pull a pair of latex gloves from my coat pocket, slip them on. I don’t have an evidence bag with me, but I pick up the jar anyway, decide to carry it out to the Explorer to bag it.

Salome turns wide eyes on me. “Whoever stole the money,” she begins. “Did they kill my mamm and datt and Uncle Abel, too?”

I look down at her, shocked that her mind had already made the leap. She stares back at me, her expression as guileless as a child’s. The lantern casts pin lights in her eyes. “I don’t know, honey, but I’m going to find out.”

She blinks back tears, and for an instant her grief turns to anger. “I don’t understand why this had to happen. If someone needed money, Datt would have given it to them.”

“These kinds of crimes never make any sense,” I tell her. But even to me, the words sound like a practiced understatement. She deserves a better answer. Because there isn’t one, I sigh and motion toward the stairs. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Mose is sitting at the table when we return to the kitchen. Salome takes her place at the table and puts her face in her hands. As if knowing something has changed, the younger children stare at her, wondering about the tears. They look up to her, I realize. And in that moment, I vow to do everything in my power to keep them from being separated.

I remain standing. “If any of you remember anything about the men who worked for your datt, let me know, okay?”

The request elicits four blank stares. After a while, Mose perks up. “The Englischer had a white dog. I remember because it killed one of our chickens.”

“What kind of dog?”

“It was a mongrel. Small. With wiry hair.”

I make a mental note to canvass the area and ask about any day laborers with white dogs. “Did your datt keep records? Write things down?”

Three heads shake in unison. Samuel pipes up with a solution. “Do you want us to look for his papers?” When I look at him, he smiles. He’s anxious to help, the kind of child who likes to please. He stares at me with the most innocent blue eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s got a smudge of dirt on his cheek, freckles on his nose. His lashes are still wet from an earlier cry. Before realizing I’m going to touch him, I lean forward and run my fingers through his mussed hair. “Thank you, Samuel, but I’ll have one of my officers do it,” I say.

My heart turns over in my chest when he smiles. The emotions running through me are so powerful, I take a step back, closer to the door. “You guys did good,” I say after a moment. “Thanks for all your help.”