An Evil Heart

Book 15: Kate Burkholder

by Linda Castillo

Genres: Police Procedurals; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

This program is read by longtime series narrator, Kathleen McInerney.

"An exceptionally engaging audiobook, delivered by a masterful narrator.” —AudioFile on A Simple Murder

Chief of Police Kate Burkholder investigates the brutal death of a young Amish man in An Evil Heart, the latest installment of the bestselling series by Linda Castillo.

On a crisp autumn day in Painters Mill, Chief of Police Kate Burkholder responds to a call only to discover an Amish man who has been violently killed with a crossbow, his body abandoned on a dirt road. Aden Karn was just twenty years old, well liked, and from an upstanding Amish family. Who would commit such a heinous crime against a young man whose life was just beginning?

The more Kate gets to know his devastated family and the people—both English and Amish—who loved him, the more determined she becomes to solve the case. Aden Karn was funny and hardworking and looking forward to marrying his sweet fiancé, Emily. All the while, Kate’s own wedding day to Tomasetti draws near...

But as she delves into Karn’s past, Kate begins to hear whispers about a dark side. What if Aden Karn wasn’t the wholesome young man everyone admired? Is it possible the rumors are a cruel campaign to blame the victim? Kate pursues every lead with a vengeance, sensing an unspeakable secret no one will broach.

The case spirals out of control when a young Amish woman comes forward with a horrific story that pits Kate against a dangerous and unexpected opponent. When the awful truth is finally uncovered, Kate comes face to face with the terrible consequences of a life lived in all the dark places.

A Macmillan Audio production from Minotaur Books.

Release date: July 11, 2023

Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Print pages: 320

Reader says this book is...: action-packed (1) entertaining story (1) terrific writing (1) unexpected twists (1)

Sample

CHAPTER 1

My mamm had a saying about life’s small discomforts.

Vann es shmatza, hayva da shmatz un bayda es dutt naett letsht zu lang. If it hurts, embrace the pain and pray it doesn’t last too long. This morning, the memory of my mamm dances in the forefront of my mind, and for the first time in a long time, I miss her.

I’m in my sister’s upstairs bedroom, standing on an old wooden alteration platform. My police uniform is draped across the foot of the bed, my boots on the floor next to it. My utility belt and service revolver look obscenely out of place against the gray-and-white wedding-ring quilt.

“Katie, my goodness, you’re fidgeting again,” Sarah tells me. “Hold still so I can finish pinning without sticking you.”

“Sorry,” I mutter.

I can’t recall the last time I wore a dress. This particular dress has a history. My sister wore it eleven years ago for her wedding. Our mamm wore it, too. Our grandmother made it. And so when my sister asked me to come over to look at it with my own wedding in mind, I had no qualms about trying it on. Now that I’m here, I realize it wasn’t a very good idea.

I haven’t been Amish for eighteen years. To wear a plain dress with the traditional halsduch, its closures fastened with straight pins instead of buttons or snaps, feels hypocritical. As if I’m trying to be something I’m not in order to please a community that will not be pleased.

Of course, my sister doesn’t see it that way. She’s a traditionalist, a peacekeeper, and an optimist rolled into one. Worse, she knows her way around a needle and thread and has no doubt she can make this dress work despite my reluctance and somehow please everyone in the process.

“This dress is a piece of our family history, Katie,” she tells me. “Mamm would have loved for you to wear it, even if you’re not Amish.”

“At this point in my life, I think she would have been happy just to get me married off.”

Her mouth twitches. “That, too.”

I look down at the front of the dress, smooth my hands over the slightly wrinkled fabric, and I try not to sigh. It’s sky blue in color with a skirt that’s a tad too full and falls to midcalf. “Do you think it’s a little too long?” I ask.

“I can shorten the hem,” she says. “That’s an easy fix.”

“Bodice isn’t quite right.”

Always the diplomat, Sarah slides a straight pin between her lips, lifts the hem, and pins. “I’ll take in the waist a bit, too. Bring the shoulders out.”

The real issue, of course, has nothing to do with the hem or bodice. For twenty minutes, we’ve been skirting the elephant in the room. Sarah is too kind to broach the subject.

“It’s okay if you don’t like the dress,” she murmurs. “I can make another one if you like. Or you can just buy one.”

“It’s not the dress … exactly,” I tell her.

Cocking her head, she meets my gaze. “What then?”

Drawing a breath, I take the plunge. “The problem is the dress is Amish. I’m not. There’s no getting around that.”

My sister lowers her hands, looks at me over the top of her reading glasses, and sighs. She’s looked at me that way a hundred times in the years since I returned to Painters Mill. Times when I’ve exasperated or disappointed her, both of which happen too often.

“You’re Anabaptist. That matters.” She gives a decisive nod, turns her attention back to the dress. “We can do away with the halsduch.”

She’s referring to the triangularly shaped “cape” or “breast cloth” that goes over the head, the point side at the back, the front gathered and secured with pins. My wearing one of the most symbolic of female Amish garments would be perceived as insincere.

“That’ll help.” Trying to be diplomatic, I look down at the front of the dress. “Maybe add a sash or belt?”

“Hmmm.” She makes a noncommittal sound, then plucks a pin from her mouth and puts it to use. “I’ve seen rosettes on belts, for the English wedding dresses. Mennonite, too.”

For the first time since I arrived, I feel a quiver of enthusiasm in my chest. Like the dress might just work after all. “I like the idea of a rosette belt.”