I spend an hour catching up on administrative tasks and following up on queries I put out the previous day. The CSU working the scene where Mandy Reiglesberger saw Sadie Miller calls at 8:00 A.M. and informs me the blood found at the scene is indeed human. As is usually the case, the lab is backlogged and the blood typing and DNA will take a few days. But at least now I'm relatively certain we're dealing with a crime scene. Not the news I wanted to start my day off with.

Tomasetti calls midmorning and I relay the news.

"d.a.m.n." He sighs. "I wanted to let you know we executed the search warrant for Stacy Karns's house and property. Get this: We found a photograph of Annie King."

Shock punches me hard. "Karns shot the photo? It's his work?"

"He's not talking. But it looks like his style. You know, black and white and kind of noir. There's a definite s.e.xual element."

"That son of a b.i.t.c.h lied to us."

"Makes you wonder what else he lied about, doesn't it?"

"It makes me wonder if he had a relationship with her."

"Does he have an alibi for the night Sadie Miller disappeared?"

"He's not talking. Asked for a lawyer. We're waiting for him now."

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d." I realize I'm grinding my teeth and make myself stop. "That makes him look guilty. Like he's hiding something."

"I don't know if it will stick, but we took him into custody on an obstruction charge. He's cooling his heels here at the county jail."

I think about what this means in terms of the case, in terms of finding Sadie. "Tomasetti, the photo you found. Is it p.o.r.nographic?"

"She's topless. Her back is turned to the camera, but part of one of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s is visible."

Fury stirs in my chest, but I tamp it down. I can't afford to let those emotions out of their cage. I know from experience they can suck the energy right out of you. "So we've got him," I say harshly. "Even if we can't get him on murder, we've got him on child p.o.r.n."

"Second offense, so he'll do time," he tells me. "As soon as I get a scan of the photo, I'll e-mail it to you."

"An underage Amish girl." I spit the words. "What kind of man does something like that?"

"Pedophile. Sociopath. Self-important p.r.i.c.k. Take your pick. If I get the chance, I'll take a shot at him for you."

"I hate to admit it, but you're actually making me feel better."

"That's my girl."

"What really p.i.s.ses me off about this is that he'll use this as publicity to promote his photographs and books."

"Nothing we can do about that."

"Do you think he killed Annie King?" I ask.

The miles between us hiss; then he says, "I don't know. Initially, I didn't think so. I still don't, really. But, Kate, that photograph and the fact that he lied to us are hard to ignore."

The connection between Karns and Annie King is undeniable. So why don't I feel better about it? "Have you found a connection between Karns and any of the others?"

"Nothing yet, but we've confiscated his computer. We've got a lot of material to comb through."

The silence that follows lingers an instant too long and I sense our thoughts have ventured back to this morning. "What about you, Kate?" he asks. "Everything okay there?"

"The CSU finished processing the scene." I'm well aware that he wasn't asking about the case, but I fall back into cop mode anyway. Safer ground, I realize, and not just for me. "There wasn't much." Thinking of the blood, I sigh. "The traffic-accident specialist tried to piece together what might have happened, but he didn't have enough for a definitive scenario. He suspects the victim may have been struck by a vehicle and received abrasions from the asphalt."

At this point, that's a best-case scenario, but neither of us says it.

"Are you driving up here?" he asks.

"I hate to leave with Sadie still missing, but I'm spinning my wheels here."

"Kate ... I wanted to tell you I know I shouldn't have laid all that on you this morning," he says. "I mean about moving in together."

"It's okay," I say quickly. "You just caught me off guard."

"Bad timing on my part."

"It was just ... unexpected. Things are a little muddled for me right now. I mean with the case. I think I just need a little s.p.a.ce." I cringe, hating the way the words sounded, wishing I could somehow take them back.

He sighs. "They're getting ready to interview Karns. I've got to get in there."

In that instant, more than anything else in the world, I want to be there. I want to be with Tomasetti. I want to be there when they question Karns. If the man is guilty of murdering Annie King, there's a high probability he's involved with the disappearance of Sadie Miller.

"Tomasetti?"

"Yeah?"

A hundred words dangle on my tongue. I want to say something that will make all of this awkwardness between us go away. I want to let him know we're okay, that things really aren't muddled and the problem is that I suck at honest communication, especially when there's so much at stake.

"I'm thinking about it," I blurt.

The statement needs no explanation. "Okay," he tells me.

I close my eyes. "Let me know how it goes with Karns." And I hit END before he can respond.

I've barely hung up when my cell goes off. I look down and see Auggie's name on the display and groan inwardly. For several seconds, I debate whether to answer, because I already know the direction in which the conversation will go.

"Kate, look, I just wanted to let you know I've talked to the county attorney about the charges against Bradford." He begins the conversation as if my only thought in the world is the state of his son's life. "I also spoke with Judge Seibenthaler. They suggested I speak with you. I thought we could discuss it and perhaps get the charges b.u.mped down."

"Auggie, I've got my hands full with the Sadie Miller case."

"I'm not asking you to drop the charges...."

He drones on as if I'm not there, and I realize that no matter how I handle this, I'm going to lose. I hit END, grab my keys off the desk, and leave my office.

In the reception area, I find Glock standing at Mona's station. "I could shoot him for you," he offers without preamble.

"Might not go over too well with the town council," I say.

Mona snorts. "On the other hand, it might help get that new budget pa.s.sed."

"You know I could charge both of you with conspiracy to commit murder, right?"

The three of us break into laughter, and another layer of stress sloughs off my back.

"You heading back to Buck Creek?" Mona asks.

I tell them about my conversation with Tomasetti and the photo found at Stacy Karns's home. "I hate to leave with the Miller girl still missing. But it looks like Karns might be our guy."

"She could be in Buck Creek," Glock puts in.

I sigh. "How do you feel about putting together some volunteers and searching the woods near her house again?"

"I'm all for it. I think Rasmussen is trying to get some dogs out there again, too."

I turn my attention to Mona. "Anything interesting on any of those names?"

She looks up from her computer and shakes her head. "The only thing I've found so far is a piece from The Early Bird newspaper. Apparently, the Mast farm is historical. One hundred and fifty years ago, it was a stop on the Underground Railroad."

"Probably not too helpful in terms of the case."

"Interesting, though," Glock puts in.

Mona hits a few keys. "I'm just getting started, so maybe something will pop."

I start toward the door, wishing I could be as optimistic. "Call me if you need anything."

Two hours later, I'm in the Explorer, heading north on Ohio 44. I'm ten minutes from Buck Creek when my cell phone chirps. I glance down, half-expecting to see the mayor's name on the display. I'm relieved to see it's Mona.

"What's up?" I ask.

"Hey, Chief, I wasn't sure if I should bother you with this, but I think I found something interesting on that Amish couple in Monongahela Falls."

"The Masts?"

"Did you know they lost a daughter, Rebecca?"

"I know their son disappeared."

"Right. Noah. I was reading about the son when I found another story the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette did, like, ten years ago."

"What happened to the daughter?" I ask.

"She went missing. Local PD conducted a search and found a suicide note in her room."

"Suicide?" In the back of my mind I wonder why the Masts didn't mention it.

"A year before Noah Mast disappeared," I say, my mind scrambling to make sense of the news, draw some kind of connection. "Did they find her body?"

"Four months later, when they dragged a nearby lake." More keys click. "Evidently, she'd jumped through an ice-fishing hole on Mohawk Lake. Official manner of death was suicide."

Tomasetti and I drove past the lake on our way to the Mast farm.

"Do you think this is relevant?" she asks. "I mean, connected to the missing teens or that murdered girl?

"I don't know." Even as I say the words, I know that lying by omission can be as deceptive as an outright lie. "But I'm going to find out."

CHAPTER 18.

Frustration rides my back as I speed past densely forested countryside interspersed with farmland and rolling, lush pastures toward Monongahela Falls. I'm annoyed because once again I've been pulled away from where I need to be: Buck Creek. I don't know why the Masts failed to mention their daughter's suicide; I don't believe its relevant. Nor do I believe they're involved in the disappearances. Nonetheless they've got some explaining to do.

I've spent the last two hours racking my brain, trying to hit on some common denominator that connects the missing teens: Annie King, Bonnie Fisher, Ruth Wagler, Sadie Miller, and, finally, Noah Mast.

Aside from being Amish, what did these five young people have in common? We haven't been able to determine if they knew one another or if they'd been in contact with one another. In all probability, mainly due to the physical distance between them and limited transportation options, they did not. As far as we know, none of the teenagers had access to a computer or laptop, so they probably didn't meet online. Of course, they could have used a public computer-at a library, for example-but I don't think that's the case.

The most obvious characteristic they shared was that they were Amish. Second, all were between fourteen and eighteen years of age. I think about what events take place during that period of time in the life of an Amish teenager. Since most only go to school through the eighth grade, they would have finished by age fourteen and already have been considering joining the church. Some were already working, either on the farm or, depending on where they lived, outside the home. Some had entered rumspringa, which is basically a period of one or two years when the teenager is granted the freedom to experience the outside world before being baptized.

My gut tells me that while age is key, the element that connects these teens is more personal. Something unique to these particular teenagers. But what? What are we not seeing? Why the h.e.l.l doesn't anything about this case feel right?

I know, perhaps better than most, that the Amish keep secrets. Even conservative Amish families do. My own family, while not exactly Old Order, were conservative. My mamm and datt held my sister and brother and me to some pretty high standards, even in terms of the Amish. Jacob and Sarah fared well beneath that kind of iron-fist parenting. Neither strayed beyond the parameters of the Ordnung.

But I floundered within those constraints. Even as young as twelve, I resented the restrictions imposed on my life, even though I had no inkling of the concept of freedom. I remember feeling as if every aspect of my life was being micromanaged-by my parents, by our bishop, by society and the Amish culture in general. I recall begrudging my brother because he-and Amish males in general-had more freedoms than I and my female peers did. Even then, the unfairness of that chafed my sensibilities.

All of that discontent came to a head when I was fourteen and an Amish man by the name of Daniel Lapp walked into our farmhouse when I was alone and raped me. I learned the meaning of violence that day. I learned to what lengths I would go to protect myself. And I learned that I was capable of extreme violence. I learned what it meant to hate-not only another human being but myself. Especially myself.

When my parents discovered I'd shot and killed my rapist, I learned that even decent, G.o.d-loving Amish break the law. I learned they're capable of lying to protect their children. And, in the eyes of the angry teen I'd been, I knew that underneath all those layers of self-righteous bulls.h.i.t, they were sinners, just like everyone else.

I spent the following years rebelling against any rule that didn't suit me-and few did. I defied my parents. I railed against all those rigid Amish tenants. I rebelled against myself, and against G.o.d. I disrupted the lives of my siblings. Embarra.s.sed my parents. Disappointed the Amish bishop. When Mamm and Datt began to worry that I was a negative influence on my siblings, I knew it was time to leave. The thought terrified me, but I would rather have died than admit it. Instead, when I turned eighteen, I left Painters Mill for Columbus, Ohio.

In the back of my mind, I always thought I'd fail. That I'd run back to Painters Mill with my tail between my legs. But I didn't. Mamm traveled to Columbus when I graduated from the Police Academy. Sadly, I never saw my datt again. He died of a stroke six months later. I finally returned to Painters Mill to be with Mamm after she'd been diagnosed with breast cancer. She'd forgone conventional medical treatment, opting instead for Amish folk remedies. Those remedies did little to help, of course, and she suffered a terrible end. Even after all these years, sometimes those old regrets sneak up on me.

In terms of Amish youth, I was an anomaly. But it's my only perspective and I can't help but compare my life with the lives of the missing teenagers. Do we share a common thread?

The only teen in the group I know personally is Sadie Miller. Pretty, troubled Sadie. The last time I saw her, she'd been dressed in painted-on jeans and a revealing tank top. Wearing too much makeup and smoking cigarettes. Cursing because she'd discovered the power of shock value. Sadie and her love of fabric and art and all of her big plans for the future. Sadie, the rule breaker.

The rule breaker.

Something clicks in my brain.