pointing to that as proof that Eli is some sort of hothead capable of snapping.”
Diane opened her mouth but said nothing, the silence more powerful than any word she could have uttered.
“You think she’s right?” she whispered. “You think Eli could have killed her husband?”
“No. Of course not. I …” Diane stopped, her cheeksgrowing pale in the candlelight. “He
did
publically threaten the man if the money wasn’t returned. That’s why Walter took off for the hills in the first place.”
Claire took in the information, compared it with what Esther had told her. “Eli got in trouble with the Amish for making those threats, didn’t he?”
“He was shunned at home and in the community until he acknowledged what he’d done,” Diane relayed. “From what I’ve been told, he struggled with accepting fault, but he gave in because he couldn’t stand his family—and Esther—not being allowed to talk to him.”
“Then why would he run that risk by doing something even worse? The stolen money has probably been spent by now, anyway. So what would Eli gain by killing the guy?” They were reasonable questions. They were also the same ones that had contributed to her bout of insomnia in the first place.
Before Diane could respond, she continued.
“Unless he wasn’t dealing from a place of logic to begin with.” She hated that she’d given words to the fear that had trumped all the questions and driven her from bed in the middle of the night. But it just kind of came out.
And went right over her aunt’s head.
“Ahhh. Now I understand the part about being hurt and hurting. You’re worried about Eli. That’s commendable, really, but there’s more, isn’t there?”
She paused, torn between tackling the path she’d just turned down and leaving it for private exploration at a later time. On one hand, the nagging fear that had driven her from bed was just that—a fear. On the other hand, that fear was based on speculation rather than cold hard facts. If she talked it out, maybe it would be better.
Shaking the troubling thoughts from her mind, shefocused on the third and final reason she was sitting in the parlor rather than sleeping in her bed. “I guess I feel badly for Jakob.”
Diane’s left eyebrow rose. “Oh?”
“He misses his family terribly. You can see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice every single time they come up in conversation or he sees something that reminds him of them.”
“I can only imagine how much harder it must make things for him to be back here.” Diane crossed back to the couch and sunk onto the cushion beside Claire. “It’s wonderful to see him again, but I can’t help but feel he made a mistake coming back.”
She rushed to defend Jakob’s decision, crafting reasons based on conjecture. “Maybe he wanted a chance to be a part of their lives again. To get to know his nieces and nephews …”
“Neither of which can ever happen.”
“But why can’t it? Those people are his family. He wanted to make a difference in the world. How can they truly fault him for that?” She heard the intensity in her voice and worked to soften it. “I’m sorry, Aunt Diane, I really am. I’m not angry at you. I’m just frustrated.”
Diane reached for Claire’s hand and lovingly pressed it between hers. “I find it sad, too, dear. I truly do. But he knew what was expected of him when he was baptized. And he knew what would come of his decision to leave. He chose to leave.”
“To be a cop! To help people like the Amish!”
“It’s just the way it is, dear.”
“It shouldn’t be,” she said, the wistful quality of her voice evident to her own ears.
“Some things just can’t be changed.”
“Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I can’t try.” Slowly, gently, Claire extricated her hand from Diane’s. “I have to, Diane. For Jakob. And for Martha.”
For a moment, Diane said nothing, her large thoughtful eyes studying Claire intently. If she had any
Diane opened her mouth but said nothing, the silence more powerful than any word she could have uttered.
“You think she’s right?” she whispered. “You think Eli could have killed her husband?”
“No. Of course not. I …” Diane stopped, her cheeksgrowing pale in the candlelight. “He
did
publically threaten the man if the money wasn’t returned. That’s why Walter took off for the hills in the first place.”
Claire took in the information, compared it with what Esther had told her. “Eli got in trouble with the Amish for making those threats, didn’t he?”
“He was shunned at home and in the community until he acknowledged what he’d done,” Diane relayed. “From what I’ve been told, he struggled with accepting fault, but he gave in because he couldn’t stand his family—and Esther—not being allowed to talk to him.”
“Then why would he run that risk by doing something even worse? The stolen money has probably been spent by now, anyway. So what would Eli gain by killing the guy?” They were reasonable questions. They were also the same ones that had contributed to her bout of insomnia in the first place.
Before Diane could respond, she continued.
“Unless he wasn’t dealing from a place of logic to begin with.” She hated that she’d given words to the fear that had trumped all the questions and driven her from bed in the middle of the night. But it just kind of came out.
And went right over her aunt’s head.
“Ahhh. Now I understand the part about being hurt and hurting. You’re worried about Eli. That’s commendable, really, but there’s more, isn’t there?”
She paused, torn between tackling the path she’d just turned down and leaving it for private exploration at a later time. On one hand, the nagging fear that had driven her from bed was just that—a fear. On the other hand, that fear was based on speculation rather than cold hard facts. If she talked it out, maybe it would be better.
Shaking the troubling thoughts from her mind, shefocused on the third and final reason she was sitting in the parlor rather than sleeping in her bed. “I guess I feel badly for Jakob.”
Diane’s left eyebrow rose. “Oh?”
“He misses his family terribly. You can see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice every single time they come up in conversation or he sees something that reminds him of them.”
“I can only imagine how much harder it must make things for him to be back here.” Diane crossed back to the couch and sunk onto the cushion beside Claire. “It’s wonderful to see him again, but I can’t help but feel he made a mistake coming back.”
She rushed to defend Jakob’s decision, crafting reasons based on conjecture. “Maybe he wanted a chance to be a part of their lives again. To get to know his nieces and nephews …”
“Neither of which can ever happen.”
“But why can’t it? Those people are his family. He wanted to make a difference in the world. How can they truly fault him for that?” She heard the intensity in her voice and worked to soften it. “I’m sorry, Aunt Diane, I really am. I’m not angry at you. I’m just frustrated.”
Diane reached for Claire’s hand and lovingly pressed it between hers. “I find it sad, too, dear. I truly do. But he knew what was expected of him when he was baptized. And he knew what would come of his decision to leave. He chose to leave.”
“To be a cop! To help people like the Amish!”
“It’s just the way it is, dear.”
“It shouldn’t be,” she said, the wistful quality of her voice evident to her own ears.
“Some things just can’t be changed.”
“Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I can’t try.” Slowly, gently, Claire extricated her hand from Diane’s. “I have to, Diane. For Jakob. And for Martha.”
For a moment, Diane said nothing, her large thoughtful eyes studying Claire intently. If she had any
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