Plain Jeopardy. Alison Stone

her life had changed.

      Amish to outsider.

      Before versus after.

      Conner’s father glanced over at his former coworker. “Anything else to add?”

      “No. Not really. It was a shame we never found the guilty party. It was like he vanished into the night.”

      “You mentioned a reporter at the time...” Grace watched the former sheriff flinch.

      “Yeah,” Harry said. “She worked for the now-defunct Quail Hollow Gazette. She was like a dog with a bone. Relentless.”

      “Do you know if she still lives in Quail Hollow?” Grace asked, hope blossoming. Another piece of the puzzle.

      Can I really do this?

      Kevin leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Can’t be sure. I believe she had some health issues and moved away to live with her daughter down south. Away from this cold.”

      “I imagine they have her articles on file at the library,” Grace said, thinking out loud. “Maybe I’ll do some digging.”

      After they finished eating, Grace and Conner carried the paper plates and glasses into the kitchen. Grace leaned on the counter while Conner put the glasses in the dishwasher. “I’m not sure I’m ready to look into my mother’s murder.”

      Conner slowly closed the dishwasher door and turned to face her. “Your mother’s sudden death had to be really tough on you. Leaving this community must have made it that much harder.”

      “I often wondered how my life would have been if I had grown up Amish. I look at the Amish men and women in town and try to imagine the path not taken. Sometimes I wonder if this was all part of God’s bigger plan.” Heat crept up her face. “Don’t get me wrong—I’d do anything to have my mom back. Yet no one could have predicted how her death changed everything about my life. Not all of it bad.” She slowly ran a hand through her hair. “That sounds horrible, doesn’t it?”

      “No, life’s twists and turns are hard to understand sometimes.” He took a step closer to her, and she didn’t move. “But some tragedies don’t have any redeeming qualities.”

      “You’re talking about Jason’s death.”

      He nodded, a flash of hurt in his eyes. “I’m asking you not to continue to write about the death of my cousin’s son. It’s hard for our family, especially his mom. She lost her son and her husband in the course of a year. She’s spiraling out of control. She’s distraught.”

      A knot twisted in Grace’s stomach. “I’m sympathetic. I really am, but you can’t compare the two cases. Jason drove under the influence. He made a choice.” She shifted away from the counter and glanced out the back window overlooking the snow-covered yard. The evening light was about to fade. “This is my job.” Grace wondered how many times they’d go round and round on this topic.

      “Everyone has a job to do.” Grace spun around to find Kevin Schrock resting his shoulder on the doorway of the kitchen. “And sometimes it’s best not to mix business with personal.” How long had he been eavesdropping?

      Kevin seemed unfazed that he had interrupted their private conversation. “His dad allowed your mother’s case to get to him. Ruined his marriage.” He pushed off the doorway and strolled into the room. “You have to trust your gut on these things. If you don’t think you can live with what you find, maybe it’s a story better left untold.”

      Grace stared at him, wondering which story he thought was better left untold.

      * * *

      A few days later, since her sister’s car was still in the collision shop, Grace called the number for a car service in town. The Amish often hired drivers to get them from place to place when taking a horse and buggy wasn’t feasible. The local district’s Ordnung allowed the Amish to ride in the vans, but they couldn’t own cars or drive themselves.

      The driver, an older gentleman, dropped Grace off at the local library and promised to return in one hour to bring her home. Grace climbed out of the van and smiled at an Amish woman hustling past with three young daughters in tow. The thick fabric of their bonnets kept their heads warm. Their long dresses poked out from under black coats. The fabric brushed the edge of the shoveled walkway, collecting clumps of snow. Nostalgia pricked the back of Grace’s eyes. Another generation ago, that could have been her and her sisters.

      Grace held her collar closed and strode toward the main entry of the quaint library. Ever since retired Sheriff Gates had mentioned the articles in the Quail Hollow Gazette about her mother’s murder, Grace couldn’t get them off her mind. She tried Googling and using some of her research tools to find the articles online, but came up empty. At first, Grace took it as a sign that she needed to let the past stay in the past.

      Her initial curiosity had been followed by a restless night and a growing determination that hollowed out the pit of her stomach. Grace hadn’t become a top-notch reporter by allowing a dead end to stop her.

      After alternating between “let it go” and “just read the articles already,” she decided only the latter would allow her to move on. Besides, there couldn’t be much to go on in the articles since no one had ever been arrested. Grace needed to squelch her obsessive curiosity, a quality that usually served her well.

      She carefully made her way up the salt-covered walkway. She entered the library and drew in a deep breath. The smell of books filled her nose. Something felt familiar. Grace had always loved to read, and she wondered if perhaps her mom had brought her here. Instilled in her a love of reading.

      Or maybe that had come later, growing up in Buffalo.

      Grace approached the librarian. “Where can I find articles from the Quail Hollow Gazette?”

      “Oh, the Gazette went under—” she hesitated, giving it some thought “—fifteen years ago.”

      “Do you have copies of the paper from the 1990s?” Grace didn’t want to tell the librarian exactly what she was looking for because she didn’t want to invite questions.

      “We have clippings of the more important articles from the paper filed chronologically in the basement.” The librarian emphasized the word basement, apparently trying to dissuade her.

      “Is the basement open for patrons to do research?”

      The librarian planted her hands on the desk and pushed to her feet. “Um, Linnie, I’m going to show this woman where the archives are in the basement,” she said to her colleague, also behind the desk.

      “Thank you,” Grace said, hoping her gratitude would make the woman feel like her trouble was worth it. She had met all kinds during her travels, from those eager to tell her their life story, to those who seemed bothered by the idea of doing their job. Yet in Grace’s experience, whatever her reception, she chose to be pleasant. It proved to be disarming—most of the time.

      The librarian muttered something as she led Grace down a back hall marked with an overhead exit sign. She moved surprisingly quickly despite her short, choppy steps and the narrow purple dress she wore. She stopped at a door before the emergency exit. With the key on a lanyard around her neck, the librarian unlocked the door, reached in and flipped on the lights. “I’ll show you the files, and then I have to get back upstairs to help Linnie. The library gets busy in the afternoon with all our after-school programs.” She squared her shoulders with a sense of pride.

      “That’s fine.” Grace preferred to do her research without anyone standing over her shoulder, anyway.

      The fluorescent lights buzzed to life in the basement. The librarian led her down the stairs, past a row of shelves stacked with books with identical bindings to a series of gray filing cabinets along a cement wall. The librarian planted her hand on the top of the cabinet, then pulled it away and swiped her hands together. “It’s a little dusty down here. Most libraries have this information on microfiche or digital but, well, we don’t