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.
