Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

meaning behind the words creep over me like a snake slithering around my neck. “Have any of them been identified?”
    “I don’t know if the lab will be able to extract DNA from the bones. We’re going through cold missing-person cases, but I think identification is going to take a while.”
    I nod, thinking about the Masts, what might have driven them to commit such horrific deeds. “We talked to them, Tomasetti. Why the hell didn’t we know something was wrong with them?”
    “Insanity isn’t always obvious.”
    “How did it get to this point?”
    He shrugs. “Taking into consideration everything we know, I suspect it started when their daughter committed suicide.”
    “They snapped,” I say, venturing a guess. “Went off the deep end.”
    “Or maybe they were just a couple of fucking lunatics. Fed off of each other.”
    Bitterness resonates in his voice, and for the first time I grasp fully the ironies of the case. This is about kids, our most precious resource, and the way we treat them. How out of touch parents—even good parents—can be. But this case is mostly about the lost ones who fall through the cracks, both Amish and English. Some of the children were loved; some were ignored. Others were looked upon by their parents or society with a sort of detached disdain.
    I look at Tomasetti and wonder how he has fared. So many times I’ve tried to imagine him with a wife he loved and two little girls he doted on. It’s a difficult image to capture. I suspect he’s a different man now than he was before.
    “I can’t imagine how difficult it’s been for you to deal with a case like this,” I say after a moment.
    He looks down at his coffee, but not before I see the walls go up, and I realize even after three years, the deaths of his wife and children is the one topic he won’t breach.
    “Tomasetti?
    He looks at me. “Yeah?”
    “If you ever want to talk about it, I’m a good listener.”
    His expression softens. “I know.”
    The sound of a train whistle drowns out the final notes of “Lunatic Fringe.” The liquor bottles above the bar rattle as a train passes. The tabletop shakes, and I feel the vibration through the floor beneath my feet.
    Across from me, Tomasetti slouches in the booth, staring at his coffee, his face revealing nothing of what he’s thinking or feeling. It’s a battle-scarred face, though it bears not a single mark. I want to heal him, but I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if he’ll let me.
    “I got a room,” Tomasetti says. “The old hotel by the river.”
    “The Petry,” I say slowly. “I noticed it when we drove past.”
    “I figured we could both use some downtime.”
    Even after so long, it unsettles me that I want him with such intensity. That I’m vulnerable to him in that way. That I’m vulnerable to my own needs and that we’re sitting here as if any of it makes sense.
    I reach across the table and take his hand. Surprise flashes on his face when I tug him toward me. I lean across the table and touch my mouth to his. His lips are firm and warm against mine, and my only conscious thought is that I want more. I smell coffee and the fading redolence of aftershave, and something profound stirs inside me.
    Not for the first time, I wonder where our relationship will take us. I wonder if two people with as much baggage as we have can get past it, make a go of something good. I wonder if our demons will allow it. And I wonder how long this precarious happiness will last.
    After a moment, I break the kiss and move back slightly. But I don’t let go of him and our faces remain close. “You make me happy,” I tell him.
    He stares at me as if I’m some puzzle that’s unexpectedly baffled him. It would be just like him to spout off something flippant or crude. But he doesn’t, and his silence leaves me stammering.
    “Are you okay?” I ask.
    “That kiss helped a lot.”
    “Maybe this relationship stuff isn’t as complicated as we thought.”
    His mouth curves. “You’re complicated. I’m screwed up. That’s probably a bad combination.”
    I start to pull away, but his hand tightens on mine. Pulling me close, he kisses me hard on the mouth. It’s completely inappropriate for a public place, but it feels good, and I’m too caught up in it to stop. After a moment, he pulls back and contemplates me. It’s as if he can see all of those jumpy places inside me—the ones I spend so much time trying to hide, especially from him.
    I try to