Page 9 of An Evil Heart
I end the call, shove the phone back into its compartment, and glance over at the doc. “Any idea when you can do the autopsy?” I ask.
“Tomorrow.” Taking his time, the doc heaves himself to his feet, sets his gaze on mine. “You’ll be doing the notification?”
“Yeah.”
We stare at each other for a too-long moment. A silent communication passes between us, uncomfortable, and yet it bolsters me, and I realize Doc has been in my shoes. He’s a doctor, after all. A pediatrician. And there have been times when all the medical know-how in the world wasn’t enough. He, too, has had to rip out a parent’s heart. He knows that the pain that comes with that obligation is nothing compared to the agony that’s been doled out by fate.
After a moment, Doc crosses to me. He sets his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”
CHAPTER 3
Angela and Lester Karn live in Painters Mill proper two blocks from the boot and shoe shop they own and operate, The Gentle Cobbler. I worked for them for a short while when I was a teenager, the last summer I lived in Painters Mill. I was seventeen at the time, discontent and getting into trouble, and my parents thought the added responsibility would be good for me. The Gentle Cobbler was an Amish-owned business, after all. I wasn’t a very good employee and spent most of my time screwing up. In the end, I got caught wearing a pair of shoes I’d pilfered from the shop and planned to put back on the shelf the next day. I wore those strappy sandals with three-inch heels to an outdoor rager and ended up snapping off a heel. Lester fired me, putting me out of my misery and effectively ending my career in retail sales.
As an adult, I’ve frequented their shop a dozen times. Tomasetti bought a pair of work boots last winter and we spent a few minutes chatting. Lester and Angela are a nice couple. They’re at the shop every dayexcept Sunday. I happen to know they open their doors at tenA.M., which is just twenty minutes from now, so I head that way.
I’m so focused on the task ahead that I barely notice the old-fashioned streetlamps and parking meters as I turn onto Main Street. I pull nose-in to the spot in front of the shop and sit there a moment wishing with every cell in my body that Aden Karn wasn’t dead and I didn’t have to walk through that door and destroy the lives of the two people inside. Though there’s aCLOSEDsign in the window, I see the lights on inside, and the silhouette of someone moving around.
Dread keeps pace with me as I cross the sidewalk to the door. Through the window, I see Angela Karn behind the counter, working on the cash register. Lester is standing on a footstool, adding shoeboxes to a shelf. I tap on the glass.
The Amish man turns and does a double take upon seeing me. He smiles as if pleased, and the ache that follows feels like a boulder in my gut. I wait while Lester climbs down from the step stool and strides to the door, his gait jaunty. He’s in his mid-fifties now with a round belly and the full salt-and-pepper beard of a married Amish man. He’s wearing a white shirt and gray trousers with suspenders. Because he works with the public, he’s traded the typical straw flat-brimmed hat for a black felt one.
I shore up with a deep breath and the door swings open. Vaguely, I’m aware of the bell jingling. The smells of leather and shoe polish and eucalyptus wafting out.
“Guder mariye,Katie,” he says, offering his hand. Good morning. “Kumma inseid.” Come inside.
“Hi, Lester.” We shake hands and I follow him into the shop.
“We still have those boots you tried on.” He’s moving back toward the footstool. It’s a busy morning and he’s got things to do in the minutes before they open. “Sale starts tomorrow if you’re interested. Twenty percent off and a free stretch if you need it.”
The words hang, unanswered. I look past him at his wife, who’s standing behind the counter, looking at me as if she’s realized this isn’t a social call.
“I’m afraid I have bad news,” I hear myself say.
Lester stops just as he reaches the stool, then turns to me, his eyes probing mine.
“There was an incident this morning,” I tell them. “Aden is dead. I’m sorry.”
Lester chokes out a sound that’s part gasp, part laugh. Not sure if I’m kidding, but he cuts it short, and then blinks at me. “What? Aden? But… how can that be?”
I’m aware of Angela coming around the counter, rushing to her husband, her face a mosaic of horror and disbelief. “What are you talking about? My goodness, how could you say such a crazy thing? We just saw him a couple days ago. He was fine.”
Before I even realize I’m going to do it, I reach for the woman’s hands, take hers in mine, and I squeeze gently. “It happened earlier this morning. On Hansbarger Road. I think he was on his way to work.”
“He takes that way,” Lester interjects. “He works over to Buckeye Construction. Rides his bike to the ice shack out there by the Lutheran church and they pick him up.”
I see desperation on their faces, denial, burgeoning grief, the hope that I’m wrong. Lester actually looks toward the door, hoping someone will burst in and tell them that all of this is a mistake.
“What kind of incident?” Angela asks.
“We’re still investigating.” Since I’m short on facts, I keep it simple. “It looks like he was riding his bicycle. There may have been some kind of altercation or accident and Aden was killed. We’re trying to figure out what happened. I just…” I run out of breath. I stare at them, unable tofinish, my breaths coming a little too fast, and for a second I’m afraid I’m going to fail them because I can’t speak.
I turn away, fight for composure. Blow out a slow breath. Take another. Angry with myself because this isn’t about me. It’s about them. And their son.
I turn back to them, take in the ravaged faces. The faltering hope. That first, brutal punch of grief.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. An understatement.
“Someone hit him?” Lester asks, his voice high and tight. “With a car? AnEnglischer? Ran him over?”
