Linda Castillo - Sworn to Silence

He waits a moment before speaking. “Those remains. Do you know who it is?”

I close my eyes, squeeze them tight. “Yes.”

“Who?”

“Daniel Lapp.”

“Who’s Daniel Lapp?”

“An Amish man.”

“How long has he been dead?”

“Sixteen years.”

“How did he die?”

“Shotgun blast.”

“Do you know who killed him?”

“Yes.”

He pauses. “Who?”

“Me,” I say and the tears come in a rush.

CHAPTER 26

John had experienced a lot of bizarre moments in his years as a cop. He’d even partaken in a few he didn’t like to spend too much time dwelling on. This one took the cake. An admission of murder was the last thing he expected when he followed Kate Burkholder here tonight.

He had pretty good instincts when it came to people. Perhaps to a lesser degree when it came to women, but then who the hell knew. He was too jaded to be shocked by much of anything. Still, this shocked him. Worse, he didn’t know what to do about it.

Setting his hands beneath her shoulders, he helped Kate to her feet. “Come on. Up and at ’em.”

She seemed almost weightless, and for the first time, he realized there wasn’t much to her; most of her bulk was coat and a perception of largeness he attributed to the force of her personality. She hadn’t struck him as a crier. Up until this moment, she’d handled the stress like a pro. She’d been tough and focused despite the ugliness of the case. But he knew the dam was breaking. There was no wailing or theatrics, but the look of misery on her face was so profound John could feel it creeping into his own psyche.

Taking her shoulders, he turned her to him. “Kate, what the hell is going on?”

“Johnston was right,” she choked. “I . . . blew th-the c-case. Because of . . . this.”

He wished he’d never followed her here. He didn’t need this. Didn’t want to deal with it. Wasn’t even sure he cared. His life was complicated enough without throwing a dead body into the mix.

“Pull yourself together,” he snapped.

She met his gaze, jerked her head.

“We need to talk about this.”

“I know.” She wiped frantically at her cheeks, and he wondered how long it took for tears to freeze on skin.

“Is there someplace warm we can go?” he asked.

“The bar. My place.” She shrugged. “Or you could just speed things along and take me right to jail.”

“Your place.” He looked around, wishing he were anywhere but here. “I have a feeling we’re going to need some privacy for this.”

“You have no idea.”

As he handed her the keys, the possibility that she might make a run for it crossed his mind. “You wouldn’t do anything stupid, would you?”

She gave him a sage look. “I’ve already used up my quota for stupid,” she said and started toward the Explorer.

She lived in a modest brick ranch on the edge of town. There was no glowing porch light to welcome her. The driveway had yet to be shoveled. He parked curbside and watched Kate pull into the driveway. She started toward the front door without waiting for him.

The thought that his being here could get the tongues wagging drifted through his mind, but John didn’t have a better idea. Besides, it wasn’t as if the chief of police and the investigating field agent didn’t have anything to talk about while they were in the midst of a serial murder case.

He got out and cut across the yard. She’d left the door open, so he stepped inside and closed it behind him. The living room was furnished with an eclectic mix of furniture. A brown contemporary sofa contrasted nicely with a cream-colored chair. An antique cabinet in need of refinishing held an assortment of vases and bowls. The house smelled faintly of candle wax and coffee.

Kate stood at the coat closet and hung her parka. She wore a navy police uniform that was badly wrinkled from wear, as opposed to a lack of pressing. Bending, she began unlacing her boots with small, competent hands. The uniform wasn’t tight, but he could see enough of her to know she was put together nicely. He guessed her to be about five feet six inches tall. Athletic. Maybe a hundred and fifteen pounds. She was wide at the hip, but it was the kind of wide that made his male interest flare.

Crossing to the closet, he hung his own coat, but his focus was on Kate. Her dark brown hair was tousled, as if she’d gone the entire day without brushing it. Her complexion was splotched from crying and pale against the dark curtain of hair.

Once her boots were off, she went through the living room and disappeared down a hall. John wandered into the kitchen. It was surprisingly homey, with light ash cupboards and a contrasting Corian countertop. A stack of bills lay on the built-in desk. A half-burned candle sat in the center of the small dining room table. A normal kitchen except for the fact that its owner had just confessed to murder . . .

Kate emerged a few minutes later. She’d changed into jeans and an oversized gray sweatshirt with Columbus Police Department emblazoned on the front. She’d washed the dirt smudges from her face and run a comb through her hair.

“Nice place,” he commented.

She brushed past him without responding. Walking to the refrigerator, she stood on her tiptoes and retrieved a bottle from the cabinet above. “The cabinets need updating.”

“Unless you’re going for some quaint country look.” He frowned at the bottle of Absolut in her hand.

“I hate country.” She gave him a sagacious look. “Don’t bother telling me alcohol isn’t going to help.”

“That would be hypocritical of me.”

“By the time I finish telling you about those remains, you’re going to need it.”

Setting two glasses and the bottle on the table, she went to the back door and opened it. A ratty-looking orange tabby darted in, hissed at John, and then disappeared to the living room.

“He likes me,” he said.

She choked out a sound that was part laugh, part sob, pulled out a chair and collapsed into it. “You’re not going to like this, John.”

“I figured that out when I saw the skull.” He took the chair across from her.

She uncapped the vodka and poured. For a moment they stared at the glasses, unspeaking. Then she reached for hers, drank it down without stopping and poured another. That was when John knew she was a hell of a lot more cop than she was Amish.

He asked the question that had been pounding at his brain since he’d spotted the bones. “Does the body have anything to do with the serial killer operating in Painters Mill?”

“I’ve been operating under that assumption.” She looked into her glass and shrugged. “Until tonight.”

“Maybe you ought to start at the beginning.”

I feel as if my life has been building to this moment. Still, I’m not prepared for it. How in the name of God does one prepare for complete and utter ruination? Worst-case scenario, Tomasetti walks out of here, goes straight to the suits at BCI who will proceed to destroy my life. If that happens, I’ve already resolved to protect Jacob and Sarah. Not because they’re any less guilty than me, but because they have children; I don’t want my nephews or Sarah’s unborn child dragged into this. I don’t want the Amish community tarnished; they don’t deserve that.

I look at Tomasetti, taking in the cold eyes and harsh mouth. He might walk a thin line, but I have a terrible feeling that ambiguity won’t help me tonight. “Regardless of what I tell you, I want to see this case through. You have to promise me.”

“You know I can’t promise that.”

I take another drink, force it down. Alcohol, the temporary cure for misery. The words I need to say tumble inside my head, a tangle of memories and secrets and the dead weight of my own conscience.