CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ilse could still see the image of the tortured man in the barn, even as she now slowly lowered herself into a cushioned seat at the long, farmhouse table in the dining room. The blinds had all been closed—understandable given that they overlooked the barn.
The man's widow didn't sit across from them, but rather stood, arms crossed, head high as if in some sort of military posture. She frowned at Ilse and Sawyer where they watched her from over steaming brews of unsweetened tea which she had offered when they'd set foot in the house.
Ilse glanced back towards the end of the hall, through the mud room towards where her shoes sat neatly by the door. No shoes in the house. That had been Mrs. Jackson's first comment.
Sawyer rubbed a hand through his hair, letting out a long
