Wittmer rubbed her arms, despite the mild evening. Her bonnet had been abandoned on her lap. “How cooperative do you think they’re going to be when you accuse their son of killing my sister?”
“It’s part of my job.”
“I don’t envy you.” She planted her elbow on the arm of her chair and rested her chin in her palm. “I don’t envy either of us.”
Hannah tossed and turned on a small cot in the first-floor bedroom of her childhood home, now her sister’s home. Even the white noise of the crickets couldn’t lull her to sleep, not after the news she had received from Sheriff Maxwell. He had left her with a warning to be careful, his cell phone number and a promise to have his officers patrol her property.
Small consolation in the dead of night in the middle of nowhere.
Not even knowing that her mother slept nearby in the adjacent dawdy haus could calm her nerves.
The small bedroom grew stifling, yet she still couldn’t bring herself to move to her sister’s more spacious bedroom upstairs. Hannah slipped out of bed and slid the window open. She dismissed her silly fears that someone would climb through her window because if someone really wanted to get in, all they had to do was stroll through the front door. It didn’t have a lock.
Hannah flopped down on the cot and sighed. She pulled the sheet up to her chin and stared toward the open bedroom door, imagining the shapes morphing into an intruder, namely John. She was driving herself crazy. Her nerves felt like they were jacked on too much caffeine.
Had John really killed her sister? The sheriff had warned her they didn’t have enough evidence to prove John had been involved. But still...
Hannah struggled to quiet her mind with prayer and the hope of sleep. The chirping crickets filled her ears, and she realized the noise could also mask footsteps on creaking floorboards.
Tingles of dread crept up her spine.
“You’re being silly. You lived in the city and never were this afraid,” she whispered into the night.
You never tried to fall asleep with the knowledge your sister had been murdered.
Sitting up, she leaned against the wall and tipped her head back. The piece of snitz pie she had eaten before bed didn’t seem like such a good idea. She was making herself sick with anxiety.
Just when her rational side had talked her irrational side out of a full-blown panic attack, the blaring of a car alarm sliced through the cacophony of chirping. Hannah bolted upright and snapped her attention toward the window. Her car was parked behind the barn and covered with a tarp.
She pressed a hand to her thumping chest and drew in deep breaths.
The alarm will turn off by itself. It will turn off by itself.
How many times had a car alarm gone off in the city? Especially on her street filled with college students and their varying schedules. Car alarms were sensitive. An animal probably scampered across the tarp. Or a tree branch dropped on it. Or...or...
No, it did not mean someone was out there waiting for her. Her apprehension grew with the strident pulsing of the alarm. She drew in another deep breath through her nose and released it.
Hannah threw back the sheet and climbed out of bed. She pushed back her shoulders. I’m being ridiculous.
She grabbed her cell phone from the end table and dialed six digits of Sheriff Maxwell’s phone number, ready to press the seventh digit if needed. She grabbed a flashlight and her car keys from the kitchen on her way out the door. She stopped long enough to stuff her feet into boots.
Her focus tunneled. She made a direct path to her car, tucked neatly between the barn and a dense crop of trees. Striding across the yard, she rolled her ankle in a rut. “Whose great idea was it to park my car way out here? Oh yeah, mine,” she muttered. Hannah was doing everything possible to comfort her mother, even if it meant hiding everything that made her an outsider.
The alarm came at Hannah in varying waves of ear-piercing obnoxiousness. Wincing, she lifted her key fob and aimed it in the general direction of the car and hit the alarm button. The sudden silence deafened her. Even the crickets were mute. She glanced back toward her mother’s dark residence. Apparently, the noise hadn’t disturbed her.
Hannah debated about returning to the house, but decided to quickly check on her car. She rounded the corner of the barn, and the beam of a flashlight blinded her. Her heart leaped in her chest, and she turned to run.
“Wait.” A deep, commanding voice vibrated through her.
Hannah didn’t wait. She had to put distance between herself and the man trespassing on the farm. She was out here alone. She had to protect the girls. She bolted toward the house, calculating how she’d reach the girls’ room and wedge something against the door.
She stumbled in a wagon wheel rut and pitched forward. Crying out in panic, she braced herself. Pain shot up the heels of her hands as they met the earth. Her knees slammed down hard on the packed dirt.
“Miss Wittmer, it’s Sheriff Maxwell.”
On all fours, Hannah dropped her head in relief. She pushed to her feet and brushed the dirt from her palms and her pj’s. She spun around. “What are you doing? You scared me to death.”
“What are you doing out here? You shouldn’t be wandering alone outside.” The sheriff arched the beam of the flashlight across her dirty pj bottoms and her University at Buffalo T-shirt, complete with boots she obviously should have laced up.
“Don’t answer my question with a question.” Hannah crossed her arms and huffed. She had a tad more confidence in her English pj’s than she had wearing her sister’s Amish dress. No one expected her to fake Amish while she slept, did they?
“I was patrolling the area and heard the alarm.” Sheriff Maxwell flicked his flashlight toward her vehicle. “Yours?”
She didn’t bother to answer the obvious. He tossed back the tarp, revealing her three-year-old Chevy Malibu. “Someone slashed your tires.”
Hannah plowed a hand through her hair, and a mix of annoyance, resignation and fear wound their way up her spine. “Did you see anyone?”
The sheriff shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”
She glared at him skeptically. “Why are you lurking around here?”
“I’m not lurking. I’m doing my job.” An annoyingly coy smile played on his lips.
“If you were doing your job—” she held out her hand toward her car, the one with twenty-seven remaining car payments “—then this would have never happened.”
“Fair enough.” His smooth voice rolled over her. “But doesn’t it make you feel better to know I’m not far away if you need me?”
Hannah smoothed the tarp back over her car. “Let’s be clear about something. I don’t need anyone.”
He seemed to give her a once-over. “That’s debatable.”
Hannah swept her hair into a ponytail and fastened it with a rubber band from her wrist. “Fair enough.” She repeated his words. “I am glad you’re here. Find out who did this. But make sure you’re not lurking around too much. I don’t want the neighbors talking. They already give me enough grief.”
Hannah spun around—her snippiness fueled more from her adrenaline-soaked nerves than from anger—and marched up to the house, keenly aware that Sheriff Maxwell was watching her.
* * *
The next morning, Hannah slipped into her sister’s black Amish dress, an outward sign she was grieving. She peeked in