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This book is dedicated to my readers. Thank you for your support and loyalty. I’m incredibly lucky—and thankful—for the opportunity to do what I love every day, creating characters and stories that will be read and loved by you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
An incredible amount of passion, expertise, and experience goes into the process of transforming a manuscript into a novel. With the publication of Shamed I have many talented and dedicated individuals to thank. First and foremost, I wish to thank my editor, Charles Spicer, who always sees the magic and never fails to help me bring it to big, bold life. I’d also like to thank my agent, Nancy Yost, whose insights and ideas are always right on. I hope both of you know how much I appreciate those phone calls—and the smiles. I’d also like to thank my publicist, Sarah Melnyk, whose keen instincts, ceaseless energy, and warmth are always a bright spot. Thank you for always being there and for always being willing to go above and beyond. And of course, I wish to thank the rest of the Minotaur Books team: Jennifer Enderlin. Sally Richardson. Andrew Martin. Kerry Nordling. Paul Hochman. Allison Ziegler. Kelley Ragland. Sarah Grill. David Rotstein. Marta Ficke. Martin Quinn. Joseph Brosnan. Lisa Davis. You guys are the crème de la crème of the publishing world and I’m endlessly delighted to be part of it.
PROLOGUE
No one went to the old Schattenbaum place anymore. No one had lived there since the flood back in 1969 washed away the crops and swept the outhouse and one of the barns into Painters Creek. Rumor had it Mr. Schattenbaum’s 1960 Chevy Corvair was still sitting in the gully where the water left it.
The place had never been grand. Even in its heyday, the house had been run-down. The roof shingles were rusty and curled. Mr. Schattenbaum had talked about painting the house, but he’d never gotten around to it. Sometimes, he didn’t even cut the grass. Despite its dilapidated state, once upon a time the Schattenbaum house had been the center of Mary Yoder’s world, filled with laughter, love, and life.
The Schattenbaums had six kids, and even though they weren’t Amish, Mary’s mamm had let her visit—and Mary did just that every chance she got. The Schattenbaums had four spotted ponies, after all; they had baby pigs, a slew of donkeys, a big tom turkey, and too many goats to count. Mary had been ten years old that last summer, and she’d had the time of her life.
It was hard for her to believe fifty years had passed; she was a grandmother now, a widow, and had seen her sixtieth birthday just last week. Every time she drove the buggy past the old farm, the years melted away and she always thought: If a place could speak, the stories it would tell.
Mary still lived in her childhood home, with her daughter and son-in-law now, half a mile down the road. She made it a point to walk this way when the opportunity presented itself. In spring, she cut the irises that still bloomed in the flower bed at the back of the house. In summer, she came for the peonies. In fall, it was all about the walnuts. According to Mr. Schattenbaum, his grandfather had planted a dozen or so black walnut trees. They were a hundred years old now and flourished where the backyard had once been. Every fall, the trees dropped thousands of nuts that kept Mary baking throughout the year—and her eight grandchildren well supplied with walnut layer cake.
The house looked much the same as it did all those years ago. The barn where Mary had spent so many afternoons cooing over those ponies had collapsed in a windstorm a few years back. The rafters and siding were slowly being reclaimed by a jungle of vines, overgrowth, and waist-high grass.
“Grossmammi! Do you want me to open the gate?”
Mary looked over at the girl on the seat beside her, and her heart soared. She’d brought her granddaughters with her to help pick up walnuts. Annie was five and the picture of her mamm at that age: Blond hair that easily tangled. Blue eyes that cried a little too readily. A thoughtful child already talking about teaching in the two-room schoolhouse down the road.
At seven, Elsie was a sweet, effervescent girl. She was one of the special ones, curious and affectionate, with a plump little body and round eyeglasses with lenses as thick as a pop bottle. She was a true gift from God, and Mary loved her all the more because of her differences.
“Might be a good idea for me to stop the buggy first, don’t you think?” Tugging the reins, Mary slowed the horse to a walk and made the turn into the weed-riddled gravel lane. “Whoa.”
She could just make out the blazing orange canopies of the trees behind the house, and she felt that familiar tug of homecoming, of nostalgia.
“Hop on down now,” she told the girls. “Open that gate. Watch out for that barbed wire, you hear?”
Both children clambered from the buggy. Their skirts swished around their legs as they ran to the rusted steel gate, their hands making short work of the chain.
Mary drove the horse through, then stopped to wait for the girls. “Come on, little ones! Leave the gate open. I hear all those pretty walnuts calling for us!”
Giggling, the girls climbed into the buggy.
“Get your bags ready,” Mary told them as she drove past the house. “I think we’re going to harvest enough this afternoon to fill all those baskets we brought.”
She smiled as the two little ones gathered their bags. Mary had made them from burlap last year for just this occasion. The bags were large, with double handles easily looped over a small shoulder. She’d embroidered green walnut leaves on the front of Elsie’s bag. On Annie’s she’d stitched a brown walnut that had been cracked open, exposing all that deliciousness inside.
Mary drove the buggy around to the back of the house, where the yard had once been. A smile whispered across her mouth when she saw that the old tire swing was still there. She stopped the horse in the shade of a hackberry tree where the grass was tall enough for the mare to nibble, and she drew in the sight, felt that familiar swell in her chest. Picking up their gloves and her own bag, Mary climbed down. For a moment, she stood there and listened to the place. The chirp of a cardinal from the tallest tree. The whisper of wind through the treetops.
“Girls, I think we’ve chosen the perfect day to harvest walnuts,” she said.
Bag draped over her shoulder, Elsie followed suit. Annie was still a little thing, so Mary reached for her and set her on the ground. She handed the two girls their tiny leather gloves.
“I don’t want to see any stained fingers,” she told them.
“You, too, Grossmammi.”
Chuckling, Mary walked with them to the stand of trees, where the sun dappled the ground at her feet.
“Look how big that tree is, Grossmammi!” Annie exclaimed.
“That’s my favorite,” Mary replied.
“Look at all the walnuts!” Elsie said with an exuberance only a seven-year-old could manage.
“God blessed us with a good crop this year,” Mary replied.
“Are we going to make cakes, Grossmammi?”
“Of course we are,” Mary assured her.
“Walnut layer cake!” Annie put
in.
“And pumpkin bread!” Elsie added.
“If you girls picked as much as you talked, we’d be done by now.” She tempered the admonition with a smile.
Stepping beneath the canopy of the tree, Mary knelt and scooped up a few walnuts, looking closely at the husks. They were green, mottled with black, but solid and mold free. It was best to gather them by October, but they were already into November. “Firm ones only, girls. They’ve been on the ground awhile. We’re late to harvest this year.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw little Annie squat and drop a walnut into her bag. Ten yards away, Elsie was already at the next tree, leather gloves on her little hands. Such a sweet, obedient child.
She worked in silence for half an hour. The girls chattered. Mary pretended not to notice when they tossed walnuts at each other. Before she knew it, her bag was full. Hefting it onto her shoulder, she walked to the buggy, and dumped her spoils into the bushel basket.
She was on her way to join the girls when something in the house snagged her attention. Movement in the window? She didn’t think so; no one ever came here, after all. Probably just the branches swaying in the breeze and reflecting off the glass. But as Mary started toward the girls, she saw it again. She was sure of it this time. A shadow in the kitchen window.
Making sure the girls were embroiled in their work, she set her bag on the ground. A crow cawed from atop the roof as she made her way to the back of the house and stepped onto the rickety porch. The door stood open a few inches, so she called out. “Hello?”
“Who are you talking to, Grossmammi?”
She glanced over her shoulder to see Annie watching her from her place beneath the tree, hands on her hips. Behind her, Elsie was making a valiant effort to juggle walnuts and not having very much luck.
“You just mind those walnuts,” she told them. “I’m taking a quick peek at Mrs. Schattenbaum’s kitchen.”
“Can we come?”
“I’ll only be a minute. You girls get back to work or we’ll be here till dark.”
Mary waited until the girls resumed their task and then crossed the porch, set her hand against the door. The hinges groaned when she pushed it open. “Hello? Is someone there?”
Memories assailed her as she stepped inside. She recalled peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches at the big kitchen table. Mrs. Schattenbaum stirring a pot of something that smelled heavenly on the stove. Sneaking chocolate-chip cookies from the jar in the cupboard. The old Formica counters were still intact. The pitted porcelain sink. The stove was gone; all that remained was a gas line and rust stains on the floor. Rat droppings everywhere. Some of the linoleum had been chewed away.
Mary was about to go to the cabinet, to see if that old cookie jar was still in its place, when a sound from the next room stopped her. Something—or someone—was definitely in there. Probably whatever had chewed up that flooring, she thought. A raccoon or possum. Or a rat. Mary wasn’t squeamish about animals; she’d grown up on a farm, after all. But she’d never liked rats.…
She glanced out the window above the sink. Annie was pitching walnuts baseball style. Elsie was using a stick as a bat. Shaking her head, Mary chuckled. Probably best not to leave them alone too long.…
Turning, she went to the doorway that opened to the living room. It was a dimly lit space filled with shadows. The smells of mildew and rotting wood laced the air. The plank floors were badly warped. Water stains on the ceiling. Wallpaper hung off the walls like sunburned skin. Curtains going to rot.
“Who’s there?” she said quietly.
A sound to her right startled a gasp from her. She saw movement from the shadows. Heard the shuffle of shoes against the floor. Someone rushing toward her …
The first blow landed against her chest, hard enough to take her breath. She reeled backward, arms flailing. A shock of pain registered behind her ribs, hot and deep. The knowledge that she was injured. All of it followed by an explosion of terror.
Something glinted in the periphery of her vision. A silhouette coming at her fast. She saw the pale oval of a face. She raised her hands. A scream ripped from her throat.
The second blow came from above. Slashed her right hand. Slammed into her shoulder and went deep. Pain zinged; then her arm went numb. It wasn’t until she saw the shiny black of blood that she realized she’d been cut. That it was bad.
Mewling, she stumbled into the kitchen, trying to put some distance between her and her attacker. He followed, aggressive and intent. The light hit his face and recognition kicked. Another layer of fear swamped her and she thought: This can’t be happening.
“You!” she cried.
The knife went up again, came down hard, hit her clavicle. Pain arced, like a lightning strike in her brain. The shocking red of blood, warm and wet on her arms, her hands, streaming down the front of her dress, splattering the floor.
And in that instant she knew. Why he’d come. What came next. The realization filled her with such horror that for an instant, she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Then she turned, flung herself toward the door, tried to run. But her shoe slipped in the blood; her foot went out from under her, and she fell to her knees.
She twisted to face him, looked up at her assailant. “Leave her alone!” she screamed. “In the name of God leave her alone!”
The knife went up. She lunged at him, grabbed his trousers, fisting the fabric, yanking and slapping. Hope leapt when he staggered sideways. The knife slammed into her back like a hammer blow. A starburst of pain as the blade careened off bone. Her vision dimmed. No breath left. No time.
Her attacker raised the knife. Lips peeled back. Teeth clenched and grinding.
She scrambled to her feet, threw herself toward the window above the sink, and smashed her hand through the glass. Caught a glimpse of the girls.
“Run!” she screamed. “Da Deivel!” The Devil. “Run! Run!”
Footfalls sounded behind her. She looked over her shoulder. A flash of silver as the knife came down, slammed into her back like an ax. White-hot pain streaked up her spine. Her knees buckled and she went down. Her face hit the floor. Above, her attacker bellowed like a beast.
Da Deivel.
He knelt, muttering ungodly words in a voice like gravel. Another knife blow jolted her body, but she couldn’t move. No pain this time. A rivulet of blood on the linoleum. More in her mouth. Breaths gurgling. Too weak to spit, so she opened her lips and let it run. Using the last of her strength, she looked up at her attacker.
Run, sweet child, she thought. Run for your life.
The knife arced, the impact as violent as a bare-fisted punch, hot as fire. The blow rocked her body. Once. Twice. No more fight left. She couldn’t get away, couldn’t move.
She was aware of the linoleum cold and gritty against her cheek. The sunlight streaming in through the window. The crow cawing somewhere outside. Finally, the sound of his footfalls as he walked to the door.
CHAPTER 1
You see a lot of things when you’re the chief of police in a small town. Things most other people don’t know about—don’t want to know about—and are probably better off for it. I deal with minor incidents mostly—traffic accidents, domestic disputes, petty thefts, loose livestock. I see people in high-stress situations—friends, neighbors, folks I’ve known most of my life. Sometimes I see them at their worst. That reality is tempered by the knowledge that I see them at their best, too. I see courage and strong character and people who care, some willing to risk their lives for someone they don’t even know. Those are the moments that lift me. The moments that keep me going when the sky is dark and the rain is pouring down.
My name is Kate Burkholder and I’m the police chief of Painters Mill. It’s a pretty little town of about 5,300 souls—a third of whom are Amish—nestled in the heart of Ohio’s Amish country. I was born here and raised Plain, but I left the fold when I was eighteen. I never thought I’d return. But after twelve years—and after I’d found my place in law enforcem
ent—my roots called me back. Fate obliged when the town council offered me the position of chief. I like to think their interest was due to my law enforcement experience or because I’m good at what I do. But I know my being formerly Amish—my familiarity with the culture, the religion, and being fluent in Deitsch—played a role in their decision. Tourism, after all, is a big chunk of the economy and our city leaders knew my presence would go a long way toward bridging the gap that exists between the Amish and “English” communities.
It’s a little after four P.M., and I’m riding shotgun in the passenger seat of my city-issue Explorer. My newest patrol officer, Mona Kurtz, is behind the wheel. She’s all business this afternoon, wearing her full uniform, which still smells of fabric softener. Her usually unruly hair is pulled into a ponytail. Makeup toned down to reasonable hues of earthy brown and nude pink. She works dispatch most nights, but recognizing the importance of patrol experience, I’ve been spending a couple of hours with her every day when our schedules align. I want her to be ready once I get a new dispatcher hired and trained.
It’s a brilliant and sunny afternoon; cool, but pleasant for November in this part of Ohio. The X Ambassadors are feeling a little “Unsteady” on the radio, which is turned down low enough so that we can hear my police radio. We’ve got to-go coffees in our cup holders, and the wrappers of our burger lunch in a bag on the console. We’re cruising down County Road 19 when we spot the dozen or so bales of hay scattered across both lanes.
“Looks like someone lost their load,” Mona says, slowing.
“Driver hits a bale of hay doing fifty and they’re going to have a problem.”
Hitting the switch for the light bar, Mona pulls over and parks. “Set up flares?”
I look ahead and sure enough, an Amish wagon piled high with hay wobbles on the horizon. “Looks like our culprit there. Let’s toss the bales onto the shoulder and go get them.”
Shamed Page 1
