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  This book is dedicated to all of my wonderful friends at the Dover Public Library in Dover, Ohio. Thank you for hosting such lovely (and fun!) events for the last eleven years. You always go above and beyond and it means a lot. Seeing you and your patrons has become a tradition I cherish more than you know. Your library is my home away from home when I’m on the road, and I very much appreciate each and every one of you.

  CHAPTER 1

  She knew coming back after so many years would be difficult, especially when she’d left so much hurt behind when she departed. She’d hurt the people she loved, never wasting a moment on the notion of regret. She’d sullied relationships that should have meant the world to her. She’d blamed others when misfortune reared its head, never admitting she might’ve been wrong. Mistakes had always been the one thing she was good at, and she’d made them in spades.

  Once upon a time she’d called Painters Mill home. She’d belonged here, been part of the community, and she’d never looked too far beyond the cornfields, the quaint farmhouses and winding back roads. Once, this little town had been the center of her universe. It was the place where her family still lived—a family she hadn’t been part of for twelve years. Like it or not, her connection to this place and its people ran deep—too deep, in her opinion—and it was a link she could no longer deny no matter how hard she tried.

  This saccharine little town with its all-American main street and pastoral countryside hadn’t always been kind. In the eyes of the seventeen-year-old girl she’d been, Painters Mill was a place of brutal lessons, rules she couldn’t abide by, and crushing recriminations by people who, like her, possessed the power to hurt.

  It took years for her to realize all the suffering and never-lived-up-to expectations were crap. Like her mamm always said: Time is a relevant thing and life is a cruel teacher. It was one of few things her mother had been right about.

  Painters Mill hadn’t changed a lick. Main Street, with its charming storefronts and Amish tourist shops, still dominated the historic downtown. The bucolic farms and back roads were still dotted with the occasional buggy or hay wagon. Coming back was like entering a time warp. It was as if she’d never been gone, and everything that had happened since was nothing more than a dream. The utter sameness of this place unsettled her in ways she hadn’t expected.

  The Willowdell Motel sure hadn’t changed. Same trashy façade and dusty gravel parking lot. Inside, the room was still dressed in the same god-awful orange carpet. Same bad wall art. Same shoddily concealed cigarette smoke and the vague smell of moldy towels. It was a place she shouldn’t have known at the age of seventeen.

  If life had taught her one lesson that stood out above the rest, it was to look forward, not back. To focus on goals instead of regrets. It took a lot of years and even more sacrifice, but she’d clawed her way out of the cesspit she’d made of her life. She’d done well—better than she ever imagined possible—and she’d forged a good life for herself. Did any of that matter now? Was it enough?

  Tossing her overnight bag onto the bed, Rachael Schwartz figured she’d waited long enough to make things right. The time had come for her to rectify the one wrong that still kept her up nights. The one bad decision she hadn’t been able to live down. The one that, for years now, pounded at the back of her brain with increasing intensity. She didn’t know how things would turn out or if she’d get what she wanted. The one thing she did know was that she had to try. However this turned out, good or bad or somewhere in between, she figured she would simply have to live with it.

  * * *

  The knock on the door came at two A.M. Even as she threw the covers aside and rolled from the bed, she knew who it was. A smile touched her mouth as she crossed to the door. Recognition kicked when she checked the peephole. The quiver of pleasure that followed didn’t quite cover the ping of trepidation. She swung open the door.

  “Well, it’s about damn time,” she said.

  A faltering smile followed by a flash of remembrance. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

  She grinned. “No such luck.”

  “Sorry about the time. Can I come in?”

  “I think you’d better. We’ve a lot to discuss.” Stepping back, she motioned her visitor inside. “I’ll get the light.”

  Her heart strummed as she started for the night table next to the bed. All the words she’d practiced saying for months now tumbled in her brain like dice. Something not quite right, but then what had she expected?

  “I hope you brought the wine,” she said as she bent to turn on the lamp.

  The blow came out of nowhere. A sunburst of white light and sound, like a stick of dynamite igniting in her head. A splintering of pain. Her knees hit the floor. Shock and confusion rattled through her.

  She reached out, grabbed the night table. A sound escaped her as she struggled to her feet, teetered left. She turned, spotted the bat, saw the other things she’d missed before. Dark intent. Buried rage. Dear God, how could she have been so naive?

  The bat came down again. Air whooshed. She staggered right, tried to escape it. Not fast enough. The blow landed hard on her shoulder. Her clavicle snapped. The lightning bolt of pain took her breath. Mewling, she turned, tried to run, fell to her knees.

  Footsteps behind her. More to come. She swiveled, raised her hands to protect herself. The bat struck her forearm. An explosion of pain. The shock pulsing like a strobe.

  “Don’t!” she cried.

  Her attacker drew back. Teeth clenched. The dead eyes of a taxidermist’s glass. The bat struck her cheekbone, the force snapping her head back. She bit her tongue, tasted blood. Darkness crowded her vision. The sensation of falling into space. The floor rushed up, struck her shoulder. The scrape of carpet against her face. The knowledge that she was injured badly. That it wasn’t going to stop. That she’d made a serious miscalculation.

  The shuffle of feet on carpet. The hiss of a labored breath. Fighting dizziness, she reached for the bed, fisted the bedsheet, tried to pull herself up. The bat struck the mattress inches from her hand. Still a chance to get away. Terrible sounds tore from her throat as she threw herself onto the bed, scrabbled across. On the other side, she grabbed the lamp, yanked the cord from the wall.

  The bat slammed against her back. A sickening wet-meat punch that rent the air from her lungs. An electric shock ran the length of her spine. Unconsciousness beckoned. She swiveled, tried to swing the lamp, but she was too injured and it clattered to the floor.

  “Get away!” she cried.

  She rolled off the bed, tried to land on her feet. Her legs buckled and she went down. She looked around. A few feet away, the door stood open. Pale light spilling in. If she could reach it … Freedom, she thought. Life. She crawled toward it, pain running like a freight train through her body.

  A sound to her left. Shoes against carpet. Legs coming around the bed. Blocking her way. “No!” she screamed, a primal cry of outrage and terror. No time to
brace.

  The bat struck her ribs with such force she was thrown onto her side. An animalistic sound ripped from her throat. Pain piled atop pain. She opened her mouth, tried to suck in air, swallowed blood.

  A wheeze escaped her as she rolled onto her back. The face that stared down at her was a mindless machine. Flat eyes filled with unspeakable purpose. No intellect. No emotion. And in that instant, she knew she was going to die. She knew her life was going to end here in this dirty motel and there wasn’t a goddamn thing she could do to help herself.

  See you in hell, she thought.

  She didn’t see the next blow coming.

  CHAPTER 2

  The winters are endless in northeastern Ohio. People are stuck indoors for the most part. The sun doesn’t show itself for weeks on end. When the relentless cold and snow finally break and the first tinge of green touches the fields, spring fever hits with the force of a pandemic.

  My name is Kate Burkholder and I’m the chief of police in Painters Mill, Ohio. Founded in 1815, it’s a pretty little township of about 5,300 souls that sits in the heart of Amish country. I was born Plain, but unlike the majority of Amish youths, I left the fold when I was eighteen. In nearby Columbus, I earned my GED and a degree in criminal justice, and I eventually found my way into law enforcement. But after I’d been in the big city a few years, my roots began to call, and when the town council courted me for the position of chief I returned and never looked back.

  This morning, I’m in the barn with my significant other, John Tomasetti, who is an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation. We met in the course of a murder investigation shortly after I became chief, and after a rocky start we began the most unlikely of relationships. Much to our surprise, it grew into something genuine and lasting, and for the first time in my adult life I’m unabashedly happy.

  We’re replacing some of the siding on the exterior of the barn. Tomasetti made a trip to the lumberyard earlier for twenty tongue-and-groove timbers and a couple of gallons of paint. As we unload supplies from the truck, a dozen or so Buckeye hens peck and scratch at the dirt floor.

  Our six-acre farm is a work in progress, mainly because we’re do-it-yourselfers and as with most endeavors in this life, there’s a learning curve. We’re hoping to replace the siding this coming weekend. Next weekend, we prime and paint. The weekend after that, weather permitting, we might just get started on the garden.

  “I hear you finally got another dispatcher hired,” Tomasetti says as he slides a board from the truck bed and drops it onto the stack on the ground.

  “She started last week,” I tell him. “Going to be a good fit.”

  “Bet Mona’s happy about that.”

  Thinking of my former dispatcher—who is now Painters Mill’s first full-time female officer—I smile. “She’s not the only one,” I say. “The chief actually gets to take the occasional day off.”

  He’s standing in the truck bed now, holding a gallon of paint in each hand, looking down at me. “I like her already.”

  I drop the final board onto the stack and look up at him. “Anyone ever tell you you look good in those leather gloves?” I ask.

  “I get that a lot,” he says.

  He’s in the process of stepping down when my cell phone vibrates against my hip. I glance at the screen to see DISPATCH pop up on the display. I answer with, “Hey, Lois.”

  “Chief.” Lois Monroe is my first-shift dispatcher. She’s a self-assured woman, a grandmother, a crossword-puzzle whiz kid, and an experienced dispatcher. Judging by her tone, something has her rattled.

  “Mona took a call from the manager out at the Willowdell Motel. She just radioed in saying there’s a dead body in one of the rooms.”

  In the back of my mind I wonder if the death is from natural causes—a heart attack or slip-fall—or, worse-case scenario, a drug overdose. A phenomenon that’s happening far too often these days, even in small towns like Painters Mill.

  “Any idea what happened?” I ask.

  “She says it’s a homicide, Chief, and she sounds shook. Says it’s a bad scene.”

  It’s not the kind of call I’m used to taking.

  “I’m on my way,” I say. “Tell Mona to secure the scene. Protect any possible evidence. No one goes in or out. Get an ambulance out there and call the coroner.”

  * * *

  It takes me twenty minutes to reach the motel. I took the time to throw on my uniform and equipment belt, and made the drive from Wooster in record time.

  The Willowdell Motel is a Painters Mill icon of sorts. The sign in front touts MID-CENTURY MODERN with CLEAN ROOMS and a SPARKLING POOL in an effort to lure tourists looking to spend a few days relaxing in Amish country. The locals don’t see the place with such optimism, especially when the pool isn’t quite so sparkling, the façade is in dire need of fresh paint, and the rooms haven’t been renovated since the 1980s.

  I pull into the gravel lot to find Mona’s cruiser parked next to the office, the overheads flashing. She’s exited the vehicle and is standing outside room 9 talking to a heavyset man wearing camo pants and a golf shirt. I’ve met him at some point, but I don’t recall his name. Likely, the manager. I park the Explorer next to her cruiser and pick up my radio mike. “Ten-twenty-three,” I say, letting Dispatch know I’ve arrived on scene.

  I get out and approach them. Mona glances my way, looks unduly relieved to see me. She’s twenty-six years old and has been a full-time officer for a few weeks. She’s as enamored with law enforcement now as she was on her first day on the job. Despite her lack of experience, she’s a good cop; she’s motivated, has good instincts, and she’s willing to work any shift, which is a plus when you only have five officers in the department.

  I take her measure as we exchange a handshake. She’s pale-faced; her hand is shaking and cold in mine. Mona is no shrinking violet. Like most of my officers, she prefers action over boredom, and she’s never investigated a crime that didn’t intrigue her in some way. This morning, she’s stone-faced and I’m pretty sure I see a fleck of vomit on her sleeve.

  “What do you have?” I ask.

  “Deceased female.” She motions with her eyes to room 9. “She’s on the floor. Chief, there’s blood everywhere. I have no idea what happened.” She glances over her shoulder at the man who’s straining to hear our every word, and lowers her voice. “It looks like there was one hell of a struggle. I can’t tell if she was stabbed or shot or … something else.”

  I turn my attention to the man. “You the manager?”

  “Doug Henry.” He taps the MANAGER badge clipped to his shirt. “I’m the one called 911.”

  “Any idea what happened?” I ask. “Did you see anything?”

  “Well, checkout is at eleven. Maid isn’t here today, so I gotta clean. I called the room around ten thirty. No one picked up, so I waited until eleven and knocked on the door. When she didn’t answer, I used my key.” He blows out a long breath. “I ain’t never seen anything like that in my life and I used to work down to the slaughterhouse. There’s blood everywhere. Stuff knocked over. I got the hell out of there and called you guys.”

  “Who is the room registered to?” I ask.

  “Last name is Schwartz,” he tells me.

  It’s a common name in this part of Ohio, both Amish and English. If memory serves me, we have at least two families here in Painters Mill with that last name. “First name?”

  “I can go look it up for you,” he offers.

  “I’d appreciate it.” I turn my attention to Mona. “You clear the room?”

  Grimacing, she shakes her head. “Once I saw her, I figured this was more than I could handle and got out.”

  “Anyone else been in the room?”

  “Just me.”

  “Coroner and ambulance en route?”

  She nods. “Sheriff’s Office, too.”

  I start toward room 9. “Let’s clear the room,” I tell her. “Make sure there’s no one else inside. Quick in and out.”r />
  I go through the door first. “Stay cognizant of evidence. Don’t touch anything.”

  “Roger that.”

  It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior. I smell the blood before I see it. The dark, unpleasant smell of metal and sulfur. A few feet away, a red-black pool the size of a dinner plate is soaked into the carpet. A smear on the bedspread. Spatter on the headboard and wall. A finer spray on the ceiling. On the other side of the bed, I see the victim’s hands.

  “Clear the bathroom,” I tell Mona. “Eyes open.”

  I feel the familiar quiver in my gut as I move to the bed—that primal aversion to violent death. No matter how many times I see it, I always get that shaky feeling in the pit of my stomach, that shortness of breath. I round the foot of the bed and get my first look at the body. The victim is female. Lying on her stomach. Legs splayed. One arm beneath her. The other arm is outstretched, clawlike hand clutching carpet, as if she’d been trying to drag herself to the door. She’s wearing a pink T-shirt and panties. Socks.

  I wish for better light as I approach. I pull my mini Maglite from my utility belt, flick it on. The beam tells a horrific tale. A lamp lies on the floor, shade crushed, the cord ripped from the wall. Whatever happened to this woman, she fought back, didn’t make it easy for the son of a bitch to do this to her.

  Good girl, a little voice whispers in the back of my brain.

  “Bathroom is clear,” comes Mona’s voice.

  “Blood?”

  “No.”

  I glance over my shoulder, see her silhouetted against the light slanting in from the door. My mind has jumped ahead to the preservation of evidence; I’m keenly aware that I’m in the process of contaminating that evidence. No way around it.

  “Go outside and get the scene taped off,” I tell her, hearing the stress in my voice. “No one comes in. No vehicles except the coroner.”