Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(37)

“Elsie isn’t your biological child, is she?” I say quietly.

The woman stares at me, unspeaking for the span of several heartbeats. Then the flesh of her cheeks begin to quiver. Her body follows suit, shaking so violently I’m afraid she’s going to vibrate off the chair and fall to a heap at my feet.

“She’s mine,” she whispers. “She’s always been mine. In every way.”

Generally speaking, the Amish are stoic when it comes to displays of emotion. That’s not to say they don’t grieve, or have tempers or feel fear; like the rest of us, they do and just as keenly. But they’re not prone to outbursts, not even children.

Evidently, Miriam Helmuth has reached her breaking point. Her child is missing. Her mother is dead—violently murdered. If I’m going to get anything out of her, now is the time to do it, so I push.

“The choice you make at this moment may be the only thing that saves your daughter’s life,” I say. “Think about that before you lie to me again.”

Squeezing her eyes shut, she lowers her head.

“Do you know where she is?” I ask.

“God, no.”

“Do you know who has her?”

Closing her eyes tightly, she shakes her head, grappling for control, her emotions teetering on the edge of some bottomless abyss. “I don’t know,” she cries. “I don’t know why they did what they did.”

“Who are ‘they’ and what did they do?” I ask.

A sob escapes her. She puts a trembling hand over her mouth, holds it tightly against her face, and then she doubles over as if she’s in physical pain.

I wait, impatience and compassion and anger warring inside me.

After a moment, she sits up and meets my gaze. “They brought her to us,” she whispers. “In the middle of the night. This screaming, red-faced little baby.”

“Elsie?”

She nods. “She was a tiny thing. Just hours old. Hungry. Frightened. Wanting her mamm and some milk.”

The reality of what I’m hearing strikes me with the force of a blow. The floor shifts beneath my feet. I almost can’t believe my ears.

“Who brought her to you?” I ask.

“The midwife. The bishop from Scioto County.”

“I need names.”

Scrubbing her fingertips over her eyes, she looks at me through the layers of misery and exhaustion and guilt. “I don’t know.”

Lowering myself into the chair, I pull out my notebook and stare down at the blank page. I almost can’t get my head around what I’ve been told. What it could mean in terms of a missing little girl and the brutal murder of her grandmother.

“Who’s the baby’s mother?” I ask.

“No one ever said, and I didn’t ask. They were secretive about it.”

“Who else was involved?”

“The bishop. The midwife.” She hesitates. “Bishop Troyer.”

The floor shifts again, violently this time, a small boat tossed about on a raging sea.

“Bishop Troyer?” I echo the name dumbly. A man I’ve known my entire life. A man of staunch beliefs and resolute faith. A leader admired not only by me, but by the entire Amish community. But he’s tough, too. When I was a troubled teen and didn’t follow the rules set forth by the Ordnung, my parents put me before him. It was an experience I never forgot. It didn’t keep me from breaking the rules, but I made certain neither my parents nor the bishop found out about it. Tonight, I can’t help but wonder: How is it that a man who had judged me so harshly once upon a time could commit his own sin with absolute impunity?

“Why did they bring the baby to you, Miriam?”

“I don’t know. You have to understand, Chief Burkholder, it was the kind of thing that wasn’t to be discussed or questioned.”

“What can you tell me about the midwife?”

“All I know is she wasn’t from around here. She was older. I didn’t recognize her. I assumed the bishop brought her along to care for the baby.”

“I need more.”

The Amish woman shakes her head.

“Surely they told you something.”

“They said nothing to me, but I listened. From what I gathered, the baby’s mamm was … troubled. I think there was something wrong with her. Something not right in her life. So much that she couldn’t care for her own baby.”

“Do you mean health problems? Mental problems? Was she dying and didn’t have family? What?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Was there any paperwork? Or documents?”

“Not that I saw.”

I stare at her, trying to come to terms with what was done. The ramifications. What comes next. “Why did you agree to take the baby?” I ask. “Didn’t you wonder where she came from? Why she was being given to you? Did you think about the parents? That it might cause problems down the road?”

She raises her gaze to mine. “We did it because the bishop asked us to. Adopt her, I mean. Children are a gift from God, you know, and I knew that little girl was in trouble. She’s one of the special ones, you know, with the problems and all. She needed us. I figured her mamm might have some problem, too. I thought we were probably helping her, as well.” She shrugs. “If she was sick or dying. If she didn’t have a husband or family.”