The odors of freshly cut wood, propane, and diesel fuel greet us when we walk in. The shop is large, with high ceilings and two Plexiglas panels for added light. Several propane lights dangle from steel rafters. An Amish man wearing a light blue work shirt and dark trousers with suspenders taps a chisel against what looks like a headboard. A second Amish man, this one with a salt-and-pepper beard, his hands gnarled with arthritis, operates an ancient treadle lathe with his foot. Somewhere in the back, a generator rumbles.

For several seconds, we stand there, taking it all in. I feel like I've stepped back in time. My datt did a good bit of woodworking, making birdhouses and mailboxes, which he sold to one of the local tourist shops. When I was three years old, he made me a wooden rocking horse-against the explicit wishes of my mamm. It was painted red, and the rough edges chafed the insides of my thighs. That didn't matter to me; I loved that rocking horse, and my mamm couldn't keep me off it. I don't think she ever forgave my datt for setting me on the path to eternal d.a.m.nation.

"May I help you?"

The softly spoken words drag me from my musings. I look up and see an Amish man wearing a light green shirt, dark trousers, and a dark hat approach. I guess him to be about forty-five years old. His full beard tells me he's married. The bulge at his belt indicates that his wife keeps him well fed.

I extend my hand to him, and Tomasetti and I introduce ourselves. "We're looking for Eli Fisher."

"I am Eli."

"We'd like to ask you some questions about your daughter," Tomasetti begins.

"Bonnie?" Hope leaps into his eyes, and I realize he thinks we're here with news. "You have some news of her?"

Quickly, I shake my head. "I'm afraid not, Mr. Fisher. We just want to get some information from you."

"I have already talked to the police."

"These are just a few follow-up questions," Tomasetti replies easily.

Suspicion hardens Fisher's eyes. He knows this is no chance visit. "It has been two months. What questions do you have now that you did not have before?"

There's a thread of steel in his voice. He's frightened for his daughter and frustrated with the police. He stares at us with direct, intelligent eyes, and I wonder how he was treated by local law enforcement in the agonizing days following her disappearance. I don't believe the sheriff's office had treated him callously, but I know that sometimes cultural differences can cause misunderstandings.

I notice the other man looking our way and lower my voice. "Is there a place we can speak in private?"

He looks from Tomasetti to me as if trying to decide whether he should throw us out or let us rip his world to shreds one last time. He's wondering if we're there to help him find his daughter, or if we're just two more in a long line of bureaucrats.

After a moment, he nods. "There is an office in the back."

He takes us through the shop, past wood shelves filled with intricately carved bread boxes and dollhouses with tiny shutters and a chimney fashioned from cut stones. The workmanship is exquisite, and I find myself wanting to run my fingers over the wood to explore every detail.

"You have many beautiful things." I say the words in Pennsylvania Dutch.

He gives me a sharp look over his shoulder. "You speak the language well. How did you come to know it?"

"I was born Amish," I tell him. "Did you make the bread boxes yourself?"

"G.o.d bestowed upon me the gift of carving. My datt didn't see it as ornamentation, but an art form to be nurtured, like a crop. He saw to it that I didn't let it go to waste."

Eli pauses outside a door and lowers his voice. "My wife works here in the office. We have spoken to the police many times. It never gets any easier for her."

"We'll do our best not to upset her," Tomasetti tells him.

Nodding once, the Amish man opens the door.

The office is small and cluttered, with a single window that looks out over a cherry tree. A plump Amish woman of about forty sits behind a wooden desk, clutching a number 2 pencil as she transfers numbers from a form onto a columnar pad, her concentration intent. When the door clicks shut, she looks up and smiles briefly. I know it the instant she recognizes us as cops. Her hand stills. The smile freezes on her lips.

Her gaze goes to her husband and she slowly rises. "Is it Bonnie?" she asks hopefully.

Eli shakes his head. "They have questions for us."

The woman seems to sink into herself. The hope that had lit her eyes just seconds before goes dark.

"I'm Kate Burkholder." I cross to her, extend my hand. "We're sorry to bother you on such a busy day."

"I'm Suzy." She returns the shake, but her hand is clammy and limp, as if the life has been drained from her.

"You have a very nice workshop," I tell her. "And some lovely things."

"The Lord has blessed us with much work."

I note the Rolodex on her desk and the wooden antique card files behind her. "I see you have a state-of-the-art computer system."

I'm speaking ironically, of course. While some of the younger Amish might sneak a cell phone and partake in texting or listen to music, the adults who have been baptized do not utilize any kind of electronic gadgetry.

The woman offers a weak smile. "It contains the names and addresses of every wholesale customer we've had since Eli's grandfather sold his first bread box seventy-six years ago."

Suzy lowers her eyes to the desktop, sets her hand over her mouth, and closes her eyes tightly. "We pray every day for her safe return," she whispers.

To my right, Eli rounds the desk and comes up behind his wife, sets his hand on her shoulder. "What is it you want to know?" he asks us.

Tomasetti and I read the file before driving over. We know the particulars of the case: when Bonnie went missing, where she was last seen, who searched for her, whom she was last seen with, who was questioned. The local PD interviewed her friends and family. What we're looking for today are any details that, for whatever reason, either weren't included in the reports or that her parents failed to mention.

"In the weeks and days before Bonnie disappeared, what was her frame of mind?" I ask.

If my line of questioning surprises him, Eli doesn't show it. "She was fine," he tells me. "The same as always."

I look at Suzy. "Was she troubled by anything? Was she having problems with any of her friends?"

The woman meets my gaze, shakes her head. "She is a happy girl. Looking forward to helping teach the little ones in the fall."

"Does she have a beau?"

Suzy's eyes skid right and she picks up her pencil. "She does not have time for a beau. She stays busy with teaching the children."

It is then that I realize Eli Fisher is either a better liar than his wife or is oblivious to the fact that his daughter was involved with someone. "What about arguments? Did either of you have words with her?"

Eli shakes his head. "Nothing like that."

I don't take my eyes off of Suzy. Beside me, Tomasetti hangs back, gives me the floor. "Is that true, Mrs. Fisher?" I ask gently.

"Of course." But the Amish woman's breaths quicken. Her grip on the pencil tightens so much, her knuckles turn white.

Eli runs his hand lightly over her shoulder before letting it fall to his side. "Why are you asking these things?" he asks.

"Because I want to find your daughter."

"We have told the police everything." He glares at me. "Why do you come here now and ask the same things all over again?"

"I want to make sure no one left something out that could be important." I hold his gaze. "Something that might help us find Bonnie."

I feel Tomasetti's attention burning into me, but I don't look away from Eli.

"You think we have done something wrong?" the Amish man asks. "You think we are guilty of something?"

"I think you're trying to protect your daughter."

He opens his mouth, but no words come.

"You don't have to protect her from us," I tell him. "Please. I need the truth. All of it."

Suzy raises her eyes to mine. I see a resolve within the depths of her gaze, something I hadn't seen before, and I know my suspicions are correct. She wants to come clean about something, but she doesn't want to speak in front of the men.

"Mr. Fisher," I begin, "I was wondering if I could buy one of those bread boxes from you?"

"We don't sell to the pub-"

He stops abruptly when Suzy reaches up and squeezes his hand. "Sell her the bread box," the woman says.

I glance at Tomasetti. With a nod, he moves toward the door. "I know which one you want," he says over his shoulder as he leaves the room.

Eli takes a final look at his wife. With a shake of his head, he follows.

When we're alone, I address Suzy in Pennsylvania Dutch. "He's a good husband, isn't he?"

"Ja." She nods adamantly, but her eyes are sad. "A good father, too."

I wait.

"But he is a man and there are certain things he cannot understand."

I don't agree; men are as capable of understanding as women, but I let it go. I watch her struggle with the words; then she raises her gaze to mine. "Bonnie had a beau," she says.

"What was his name?"

"I don't know."

"Was he Amish or English?"

"I do not know."

"How do you know she had a beau?"

She looks down at the invoice to her left, transfers a number onto the columnar pad. "Because she was with child."

I've been around the block a few too many times for this news to shock me. Teenagers having babies is nothing new-even within the Amish community. The thing that does surprise me is that this information hadn't come out before now.

"How far along was she?" I ask.

"I don't know. She wasn't showing yet."

"She confided in you?"

Her gaze skates away from mine, and I realize she's more hurt by the fact that her daughter didn't confide in her than she is by the out-of-wedlock pregnancy. "I found the ... plastic thing," she tells me. "You know, from the drugstore."

"A pregnancy kit?"

"Ja. In the trash. She'd tried to hide it, but..." A sigh shudders out of her. "That's when I knew."

"You asked her about it?"

"She denied it at first, but when I told her I'd found the test, she ... confessed."

"Do you know who the father is?"

My question elicits a blank stare, as if it hadn't occurred to her to ask. But I know it had, and I realize with some surprise there's something else going on that she considers even worse than the pregnancy.

"Who's the father?" I ask again.

She transfers another number onto the columnar pad.

"Mrs. Fisher?" I say gently. "This could be important. Who is he?"

The woman looks down at the desktop, folds her hands in front of her. "Bonnie doesn't know," she whispers.

"She had more than one partner?"

The woman jerks her head. "I don't understand her. I don't understand why she does these things."

"Do you know the names of the men she was with?"

Her face screws up, but she regains control before the tears come. "She would not say."

"Do you know how many there were?"

She puts her face in her hands and shakes her head. "No."

"Do you know where she met them?"

"She is ... secretive about such things. She gets angry when I ask too many questions."

I want to say something to comfort her. But I'm so far out of my element, I can't find the words. The things I know as a cop would be no comfort, and so I hold my silence.

"We did not teach her to be that way. I don't know how she knew...."

I nod, give her a moment. "Is there anything else you can think of that might help us find these young men?"