Chapter 16
Idon’t know much about the Amish. Some are stricter than others, and some refuse modern medicine. I put my hand on my chest, still feeling the burn with each breath. Gemma is sick. Really sick.
“Ace?” Jacques repeats. “Did you dream about her again?”
“No,” I say, knowing he’s asking about Braeya. “Gemma. I think she’s in trouble.”
Jacques’s brows pinch together. “She helped a woman try to kill you.”
“I know.” I pull the sheet over my arms. The room got a chill overnight. “Is it stupid that I’m worried about her? Shouldn’t I hate her with a fiery passion?”
“No. You have a kind heart, Ace.” He smooths my hair back and takes my hand.
“And that makes me stupid.”
“No,” he says again. “She was wrong to try and hurt you. Wrong to believe Marissa. But I know you don’t believe she’s actually a bad person.”
“I don’t.”
“Then forgiving her is not stupid.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know if I totally forgive her yet. But…I don’t want her to die.”
“Forgiveness is a hard thing to do. Not wanting her to die is a start.” He gives me a half smile. “Tell me about your dream.”
“I need to tell you about the medium we talked to first.” I flick my eyes to him.
“He told me someone wanted me, and said he saw a woman in an old-fashioned setting. I assumed he meant Braeya. But this dream…it was everything he described, though this time, I saw it. Gemma’s family is Amish.
They would look old-fashioned and from another time to anyone who doesn’t know. ”
“Can you check on her?”
“I don’t know where she is.” I bite my lip, thinking.
“Being Amish means they don’t go by normal societal rules.
They don’t approve of a lot of modern inventions, and if they’re super old-school, then Gemma won’t have access to her phone.
She shouldn’t have left the hospital when she did.
It’s been days…she could be in really bad shape. ”
“Do you think you can find her?”
“Yes, and I should have looked right away when I was told she was taken from the hospital. But I didn’t—”
“Don’t blame yourself. You’ll look now.”
“Yeah. I will.”
Jacques turns to the window. “It’s almost sunrise. Stay,” he says before I get out of bed. “Try to go back to sleep. It’s early.”
“Okay.”
He kisses me, lips lingering on mine before he gets out of bed. “I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you too.”
I watch him leave and hear the others move through the house. Lying back down, I toss and turn, tired but unable to fall asleep. Still, I stay in bed for two more hours and doze off for maybe half an hour before getting up.
The nurse at the hospital didn’t know where Gemma’s aunt and uncle were from. Gemma never talked about friends other than Marissa, who’s not only permanently on my shit list but is also wanted by the police. My best bet is Lyra, and her store opens at nine.
“Back again?” Lyra asks, unlocking the door a few minutes early for me. “Is everything okay? You’ve bought a lot of magical self-defense items lately.”
“I’m just here with a question today.”
“Oh. Of course!” She turns on the open sign. “What is it?”
“Did you know Gemma well?”
“We were never all that close. I think it had to do with that no-good Marissa wanting to keep her away from the good witches. Why do you ask?”
“She went to live with her aunt and uncle and I’m concerned about her. Her phone goes straight to voicemail and I haven’t heard from her in days. Do you happen to know where they live?”
“The Amish aunt and uncle?”
“Yeah.”
“I believe in Lancaster. That’s as narrowed down as I can get. She mentioned going there for the holidays before.”
“Thank you! And would you happen to know their names?”
“All I know is their last name is Fisher. Sorry I can’t help more.”
“That helps a lot. At least I know where to start looking.” Granted, Lancaster has over thirty thousand Amish in it, but still. It’s a start.
“She mentioned an old schoolhouse before. It was built in the early 1800s and you can pay to take a tour of it now. I think she lived near there. Does that help?”
“Yes, a lot.”
“When you find her, give her this.” Lyra takes a beaded crystal necklace from around her neck and hands it to me. “It’ll help guide her home.”
“Thanks. Let’s hope it works.”
“Yes. She belongs in the city with people who understand her.”
“It has to be rough living with people who don’t understand different beliefs.” My mind goes to Jared, and I’m glad I reached out.
“It’s more than not understanding,” Lyra says quietly, as if she’s afraid someone will overhear her badmouthing Gemma’s family. I’m the only one in here. “They’re a very religious people and probably not the most tolerant.”
“Poor Gemma.” I make a face, feeling more and more like this is time-sensitive. “Thanks again.”
“If you find her…try to get her to come back.”
“I will,” I say, thinking that won’t be hard to do.
I close my computer, having narrowed down Gemma’s possible location to two places that offer schoolhouse tours.
I’m about a two-hour drive away, less if traffic isn’t bad, and I figure it’ll take a few hours of driving and walking around until I find Gemma.
I should be back before sunset, but just in case, I rip a sheet of paper out of a notebook and leave the guys a note.
I go upstairs and grab my gun and badge as well as a sage smudge stick. The same weird feeling comes over me, compelling me to check on the runes. The thought of someone taking the guys from me is more than I can bear. I’ve grown to love them all so fucking much.
I tape the note to the inside of the basement door and turn on a light in the kitchen just in case I’m not back in time.
The guys can see in the dark with no issues, but this way it’ll look like someone is home.
I eat lunch before I leave, looking up anything I can find about Lynn.
With her death being several years ago, her Facebook account has been deactivated by someone, and I only find her name tagged in a few social media posts.
She seemed pretty normal and not psychotic.
Then I go to her boyfriend’s Facebook profile and he seems normal too…normal for a douchebag twenty-something-year-old who thinks people actually admire his “no regrets” back tattoo. He posts a lot on Facebook, making it difficult to sift back through his old photos.
Difficult, but not impossible. I click through photo after photo, going back through the years until I find a photo of him and Lynn.
The last one he posted of her was three weeks after her death, with the caption “I miss you baby” followed by a broken heart emoji.
Slower this time, I flip forward until I find a photo of him with a new girl, taken two months after Lynn’s death.
Now, I know everyone grieves in their own time, but the over-showcasing of PDA and the super cheesy caption makes me raise a brow.
Taking all emotion out of this, there’s no way I can prove her boyfriend is a bad person, let alone a killer.
Finishing my sandwich, I close my computer, put my dishes in the sink, and grab a water bottle from the fridge.
I twist off the cap as I walk to the front door, double checking the lock before heading out.
It’s afternoon by the time I get to Lancaster thanks to traffic and road construction. According to my GPS, I’m getting close to the schoolhouse. I slow, passing a horse and buggy, getting waved at by smiling kids in the back of the buggy. I wave back, impressed with how calm the horse is.
Mom loved horses. I took riding lessons the summer before she died, and was supposed to start up again in the spring.
I go another mile or two and get into what I think is the tourist part of Amish Country.
I’m half a mile away from a place that offers buggy rides.
Maybe I stereotyped a little too much, because things look way more up to date than I expected.
I pull onto a gravel driveway and park in a lot outside a large white barn. It’s really pretty here, and the quiet hush of the country is peaceful. But hey—I get that quietness at my place, too. There’s another car in the lot next to me, and a family gets out and starts taking pictures.
There’s a bakery behind the barn, and I really do intend on buying cookies and at least one pie. This place also offers tours of the town, including the old schoolhouse.
“Hi,” I say with a smile to the young girl behind the counter at the bakery. She’s wearing a plain blue dress, an apron, and a bonnet. Her hair is neatly pinned to her head, and she looks miserable sitting inside the hot bakery.
“Hi,” she says in return, eyes going to the badge hanging from my neck.
I go to a rack of pies and hear her whisper-call something to another young girl who’s behind the counter rolling out dough.
She wipes her hands on her apron and takes it off, eyes sweeping over me as well.
One pie won’t be enough for the five of us at home to split, so I get two along with a large bag of cookies.
I take them to the girl, and pull my wallet out of my purse. The girl looks behind her, obviously waiting for someone to come in.
“This looks good,” I say, fully aware of how much I suck at small talk. It’s just so fucking pointless.
The girl moves slowly, looking at my badge again. Her unease grows, and I’m not sure if it’s because of stories she’s heard about the outsider police forces or if she knows about something that’s wrong.
“Yes,” she replies meekly, and marks down what I bought on a little sheet of paper.
The girl rolling dough and another woman, who I guess to be the girls’ mother, come back in. The older woman greets me with a smile.
“Welcome,” she says, stepping up close behind the younger of the two girls. “Have you been here before?”
“Nope, this is my first time.”
“Just passing through?”
“Yes and no,” I say, handing over the money. The girl isn’t ringing me up or giving me a total or anything, so I give her the correct amount of money instead. “One of my friends just moved back here.”
“Oh, really? Here?”
“I’m not too sure, actually. Maybe you know her, or at least her aunt and uncle who she lives with. My friend is Gemma, and I’m not sure of her aunt’s and uncle’s first names, but their last name is Fisher.”
The woman relaxes, furthering my thinking there’s a reason for them to be uncomfortable with the law. I’m not getting into Amish drama right now. They can save that for the next reality TV show.
“There are a lot of Fishers,” the woman says. “Sorry I can’t help you more. I don’t know anyone named Gemma.”
“Thanks anyway.” I flick my eyes to the sign about the tours. The family that was taking pictures outside comes in, oohing and ahhing over how cute this place is. “Are you still doing any tours today?”
“Not today,” the woman tells me. “The horse that pulls the buggy is lame.”
“Oh, uh, sorry about that.”
“There’s a farm two streets over that does tours,” the girl sitting in front of me says, and her mom laughs.
“Giving away business,” her mom says with a shake of her head. “She has a good heart.”
“Yeah, seems like it. Thanks.” I take my desserts and put them in the car. I drive slowly down the street, intending on stopping at the next tourist attraction, which is a place that sells wooden furniture. I turn down the road and slow when an old schoolhouse comes into view.
And then I see her climbing the stairs of an underground root cellar. There’s no mistaking it—that’s Gemma’s aunt.