Page 99 of Sworn to Silence
He stands when I enter and bows his head slightly. “Good evening, Katie.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt your dinner.”
“You are welcome to hot soup.”
The invitation surprises me, since I’m under thebann,but I shake my head. “I’ve only got a few minutes.” I look at my sister and force a smile. “I wanted to check on you. See how you’re feeling.”
She places a hand over her distended abdomen, but her gaze slides from mine. “I feel good,” she says. “Better than last time.”
“You look great.”
William smiles. “She eats like a horse.”
“She ate us out of house and home when we were kids.” I smile, hoping it looks real. “It’s good for the baby.”
“Bad for my bulging middle!” she exclaims with a little too much enthusiasm.
An uncomfortable silence ensues. I touch her shoulder and make eye contact. “Are you still working on the baby quilt?”
“I’m almost finished.”
“Could I see it?”
My request surprises her, but her eyes light up. “Of course.” Touching my shoulder, she starts toward the living room. “Come.”
The stairs creak beneath our feet as we climb to the second level. I follow her to the bedroom she and William share. It’s a large room with two tall windows and an angled ceiling. The furniture is heavy and plain. A dresser that had once belonged to our parents. A chest with steel pulls. And a sleigh bed covered with one of Sarah’s quilts.
She crosses to the dresser and lights a glass lamp. Golden light casts shadows on the ceiling and walls. “You look tired, Katie.”
“I’ve been working a lot.”
Nodding, she pulls out a partially completed quilt. Curved patches of seafoam green and lavender form a complex pattern. I see the required seven stitches per inch and as always, I’m awed. Quilting is extremely labor intensive; a good quilt will contain over fifty thousand stitches. Most Amish women learn to sew early in life. Most can make a decent quilt. But very few ever become good enough to design a piece of art like this.
Thinking of the baby my sister carries, I touch the soft fabric. I think of the babies she’s lost in the past; I think of my own losses and for a moment I have to blink back tears. “It’s beautiful.”
“Yes.” Her smile is real this time. “It is lovely.”
I drop my hand and ask the question that’s been eating at me since Tomasetti waylaid me in the bar with his riddle about Pete the cop. “Sarah, have you told anyone about Daniel Lapp?”
She brushes a speck of thread off the quilt. “I do not wish to speak of that, Katie.”
“Did you tell someone about Lapp?”
Lowering the quilt, she stares at me as if I’ve just pulled out my pistol and shot her dead-center. “I did what I had to do.”
“What does that mean?”
“I prayed to God for guidance. When I woke yesterday morning, I knew I would find peace, that you would find peace, in the truth.”
A keen sense of betrayal cuts me. “Who did you tell?”
“I sent a note to Bishop Troyer.”
“What did the note say?”
“The truth.” She looks down at the quilt. “That you know who the killer is.” The words send a flood of panic through me. The scene at the bar with Tomasetti flashes in my mind’s eye. For an instant, I’m so stricken, I can’t catch my breath.
“I am sorry if this hurts you, Katie. But I felt very strongly that telling the truth was the right thing to do.”
