G.o.ddard nods. "I've got my secretary checking."

Around us, the forest goes silent, as if in reverence, due to the violence that transpired just a short time ago in this very spot.

Tomasetti scans the surrounding woods. "Do you have the manpower to search the area?"

"I can probably round up some volunteers." G.o.ddard unclips his phone from his belt but then pauses to indicate the tire marks. "What do you think about those?"

Tomasetti squats and studies the tread mark. "CSU might be able to lift tread imprints. If we can match those to a manufacturer, we might catch a break."

"How old do you think this blood is?" G.o.ddard asks.

Tomasetti shakes his head. "There's quite a bit of drying around the edges. Spatter is dry." He looks up, and I realize he's trying to figure out how much sun gets past the trees. "Doesn't get much sun here. It's humid. I'd say six or seven hours."

The sheriff jerks his head. "I'll get to work on those volunteers."

Stepping away from the scene, Tomasetti pulls out his phone, punches in numbers, and begins speaking quietly.

I study the scene, trying to envision what might have happened. The bag lies on the gravel shoulder, about four feet from the bloodstain. A couple of ears of sweet corn still wrapped in their husks have spilled out of it, looking out of place on the asphalt. I cross to the bag for a closer look. It's a satchel made of quilted fabric-an Amish print-and looks homemade. My mamm had a similar one when I was a kid; she used it when she went to the grocery store or into town for supplies.

Pulling a pen from my jacket pocket, I squat next to the bag and use the pen to open it and peer inside. I see green peppers, another ear of sweet corn, and tomatoes that have gone soft in the heat. Straightening, I cross to the sheriff. "Is there a vegetable stand nearby?"

He blinks at me, as if realizing he should have already explored that angle. "The Yoders run a stand a couple miles down the road."

"You talk to the folks at the stand?"

"Not yet," he says sheepishly. "There ain't no phone out there."

The statement sounds like an excuse, and he knows it. The last thing I want to do is ruffle local feathers. By all indications, he's competent and capable. Still, I'm surprised that hadn't occurred to him.

Looking chagrined, he pulls his phone from his belt. "I'll get one of my deputies out there."

I walk the scene, memorizing as much of it as I can. The location of the pool of blood, the proximity of the satchel in relation to the blood, the angle of the tire tread.

When he ends the call, I ask, "Did you photograph the scene?"

"Not yet."

"Have you checked registered s.e.x offenders in the area?"

"My secretary is pulling it now."

We study the scene for a minute or so and then I ask, "What can you tell me about the family?"

"Girl's parents are Edna and Levi King. They're Old Order. Nice folks, though. I think they got about eight kids now, with Annie being the oldest. Anyway, they came into my office about eight this morning and told me she didn't come home last night.

"Evidently, they spent the night looking for her. Got the neighbors involved. Finally, they got so worried, they decided to involve the police." He swats a fly off his forehead. "I wish they'd come to me right away, so we could have gotten a jump on this."

"You have a description of the girl?"

"They didn't have a photo." He pulls a notepad from his back pocket, flips it open. "Fifteen years old. Brown hair. Brown eyes. A hundred and fifteen pounds. Five feet five inches." He grimaces. "I seen her a time or two. Pretty little thing."

A picture of her forms in my mind. I see a plain, slender girl with work-rough hands. Trusting. At 115 pounds, she would be easy to overpower. Easy to control. I pull out my own pad and jot down the information. "Do you know what she was wearing?"

"Blue dress with a white ap.r.o.n. Black shoes. One of them bonnet things on her head."

"Prayer kapp," I tell him.

He gives me a "Yeah, whatever" look.

"Does she have a boyfriend?"

"To tell you the truth, Chief Burkholder, the parents weren't very forthcoming about the girl's personal business. They kind of clammed up when I asked, and I got the impression they were uncomfortable talking to me." He grimaces. "I was thinking we could run out there so you could have a go at them."

"Sure," I tell him.

"CSU is on the way."

We turn at the sound of Tomasetti's voice. He's striding toward us. "Should be here in an hour or so."

"I think we need to speak with the parents," I tell him.

"Sounds like a good place to start." He glances at G.o.ddard. "Do you have the manpower to protect the scene?"

"I'll tell my deputy to stay put until your crime-scene guy gets here." He starts toward the young officer.

Tomasetti and I head toward the Tahoe. "What do you think?" I ask as we climb in.

He grimaces. "I think that blood is a bad f.u.c.king sign."

I agree, but I don't say the words.

Ten minutes later, we turn onto a winding gravel lane bounded on both sides by cornfields, the shoulder-high stalks shimmering like some ma.s.sive green mirage in the afternoon sun. A tangle of raspberry bushes grows along the wire fence on the north side. White dust billows from the tires of Sheriff G.o.ddard's cruiser in front of us, tiny stones pinging against the grille of the Tahoe.

A quarter mile in, the track opens to a large gravel area. Two hulking red barns trimmed in white loom into view. Ahead, I see several smaller outbuildings, an old outhouse, and a rusty metal shed. On my left, a white farmhouse with tall, narrow windows and a green tin roof looks out over the land. I wonder about all the things the house has witnessed over the years and I know this place, like so many others in this part of the country, has stories to tell.

Beyond, several huge maple trees shade a manicured yard teeming with blooming peonies and tufts of pampas gra.s.s with spires as tall as a man. A scarecrow wearing a straw hat and suspenders stands guard over a garden abundant with strawberries and green beans. An Amish girl in a tan dress stops hoeing to watch us.

I recall reading, when I was in college, that sense memories can be a powerful trigger of flashbacks. The sight of this farm, combined with the smell of cattle and horses and that of summer foliage, elicits an intense sense of dej vu. This farm is uncannily similar to the one I grew up on, and for the span of several seconds I'm transported back to the past. I see my mamm, a clothespin between her teeth, hanging trousers and dresses on the clothesline. Looking at the field behind the barn, I imagine my brother Jacob driving our team of Percheron geldings while my datt and the neighbor boy cut and bundle hay. I remember the frustration of being stuck in the house, scrubbing floors, when I desperately wanted to be outside on the back of one of those horses.

They were happy, innocent times, and though that part of my life was far from perfect, the memories evoke an uneasy sense of longing. It's not that I want to be Amish again or that I want to recapture my youth or a past I know is forever gone. But invariably when I remember those days, I can't help but think of all the things I left unfinished. Mostly my childhood, which was cut short long before its time. So many things I left unsaid, most of it to my family. But if I've learned anything in my thirty-three years, it is that no matter how badly you want a redo, life never makes such allowances.

I think of Annie King and I wonder if she was content living here with her family. If she found comfort in being part of this tight-knit community. Or was she like me? Perpetually discontent and pining for things she could never have. I wonder where she is at this very moment. If she's frightened and wishing she was back here with her brothers and sisters and the monotony of farm life. I wonder if years from now she'll look back and, like me, wish she'd done things differently.

"Looks like they've got company." Tomasetti's voice snaps me out of my fugue.

Two Amish men in blue work shirts, straw hats, and dark trousers with suspenders stand at the barn door, watching us. "They're probably neighbors," I tell him. "Here to help with the search or care for the livestock while the family deals with this."

I follow his gaze. A few yards away, two Amish girls are trying to wrestle a large dog into a beat-up washtub. The girls are about ten years old. They're wearing plain green dresses, their mouse brown hair pulled into buns at their napes. Their feet are bare and dirty, and the dresses haven't fared much better. The simplicity and innocence of the sight makes me smile.

All children are innocent, but Amish children possess a particular kind of innocence. They believe the world is a good place, that their parents never make mistakes, that everyone they meet is their friend, and that if you pray hard enough, G.o.d will answer your prayers. It's particularly shattering for an Amish child when she realizes none of those things are true.

Tomasetti and I watch the girls for a moment, each of us caught in our thoughts. That's when it strikes me that these girls are about the same age his own would have been had their lives not been cut short by a career criminal who thought he'd make an example of a cop who crossed him. That was three years ago, and I know Tomasetti is still clawing his way out of that bottomless pit of despair. Most days, I think, he succeeds. But sometimes when I look into his eyes, I see the dark place in which he resides.

He cuts me a sideways look. "I think the dog is going to win."

"My money's on the girls." I smile at him.

"Are you telling me I shouldn't underestimate the determination of an Amish girl?"

"Especially when she's got her sister to help her. Dog doesn't stand a chance. One way or another, he's going to get that bath."

He parks adjacent to a rail fence next to the sheriff's cruiser and kills the engine. Neither of us speaks as we take the sidewalk to the porch and wait for Sheriff G.o.ddard.

"d.a.m.n, it's humid." Before he can knock, the door swings open. I find myself looking down at a little boy whose head comes up to about waist level. He's blond-haired and blue-eyed, with blunt-cut bangs that are crooked from a recent trim. His small nose is covered with a smattering of freckles.

"h.e.l.lo there, little guy," Sheriff G.o.ddard says. "Is your mom or dad home?"

The little boy squeals and runs back into the house.

"You've got a way with kids," Tomasetti says.

The sheriff glances sideways at us. "Same situation with women." He looks at me. "No offense."

I withhold a smile. "None taken."

He's barely gotten the words out when an Amish man enters the mudroom and crosses to the door. He's tall-well over six feet-with muscled shoulders and the beginnings of a paunch, divulging the fact that, despite his fitness, he's a well-fed man. He's blond and has a brown beard that reaches halfway down his belly, telling me he's married. I guess him to be in his mid-forties. Dressed in black trousers, suspenders, and a vest over a white shirt, he is an imposing figure.

His eyes are the color of onyx beneath heavy brows, and they take in our presence with no emotion. "Can I help you?" he asks, but he makes no move to invite us inside.

"Afternoon, Mr. King," Sheriff G.o.ddard begins. "We'd like to talk to you about your daughter."

The Amish man's expression remains impa.s.sive as his eyes move from G.o.ddard to Tomasetti and me.

G.o.ddard introduces us, letting him know which agency we represent. "They're here to help us find Annie, Mr. King. We were wondering if you and your wife could answer a few questions."

King's eyes narrow on me. I'm not sure if he recognized my last name as a common Amish one or if he's merely curious because I'm from Holmes County. He doesn't ask, turning his attention to G.o.ddard. "Do you have news of her?" he asks.

"We think we found her bag," the sheriff tells him.

A quiver runs through King, as if hope and terror are waging war inside him. "Where?"

"A couple of miles from the vegetable stand," G.o.ddard says. "Have you had any luck on your end?"

The man's shoulders fall forward and he shakes his head. "No," he says, and opens the door.

We enter a mudroom with a scuffed plank floor and two bare windows, which usher in plenty of light. I see six straw hats hanging neatly on wooden dowels set into the wall. Muddy work boots are lined up on a homemade rug. An ancient wringer washing machine that smells of soap and mildew has been shoved into a corner. A basket filled with clothespins sits on the floor next to the machine.

King leads us through a doorway and into a large, well-used kitchen. The aromas of bread, seared meat, and kerosene greet me, and the same sense of dej vu from earlier grips me. Light filters in from a single window over the sink, but it's not enough to cut the shadows. Dual lanterns glow yellow from atop a rectangular table covered with a blue-and-white-checkered cloth. Sc.r.a.ped-clean plates and a smattering of flatware and a few drinking gla.s.ses litter the table's surface, and I realize that though it's not yet four o'clock, this family has just finished dinner. That's when I notice the one place setting that hasn't been touched. Annie's, I realize. It's a symbol of their hope that she will return, of their faith that G.o.d will bring her back to them and their prayers will be answered. It's been a long time since I put that kind of faith in anything. It makes me sad to think that this family might soon realize that some prayers go unanswered.

An Amish girl barely into her teens gathers dishes from the table and carries them to the sink, where an Amish woman wearing a dark blue dress, white ap.r.o.n, and a gauzy white kapp has her hands immersed in soapy water, her head bowed. She's so embroiled in the task, or perhaps her thoughts, she doesn't notice us until her husband speaks.

"Mir hen Englischer bsuch ghadde," he says, meaning "We have English visitors."

The woman turns, her mouth open in surprise. I guess her to be at least a decade younger than her husband. I suspect that at one time she was beautiful, but there's a hollowed-out countenance to her appearance. The look of the bereaved. I doubt she's eaten or slept or had a moment's peace of mind since her daughter went missing. Despite her faith, worry for her child's well-being has begun eating away at her like some flesh-eating bacteria that can't be stopped.

"I'm Kate Burkholder," I tell her. "We're here to help you find Annie." Before even realizing I'm going to move, I'm across the kitchen and extending my hand. I sense the collective attention of G.o.ddard and Tomasetti on me, and I address her in Pennsylvania Dutch. "Can we sit and talk awhile?"

The woman blinks at me as if I've shocked her. Out of sheer politeness, she raises her hand to mine. It's wet and limp and cold, and I find myself wanting to warm it. Her eyes sweep to her husband, asking for his permission to speak with me, I realize, and I try not to be annoyed with her. His gaze levels on me. I stare back, not missing the hardness of his expression or the mistrust in his eyes.

He gives her a minute nod.

"I'm Edna." She raises her eyes to mine. "Sitz dich anne un bleib e weil." Sit yourself down and stay a while. "I'll make coffee."

CHAPTER 5.

Ten minutes later, Edna and Levi King, Tomasetti, G.o.ddard, and I are sitting at the big kitchen table with steaming mugs of coffee in front of us. I can hear the children playing in another part of the house; a dog barking from somewhere nearby; the jaay-jaay screech of a blue jay in the maple tree outside; the whistle of a train in the distance. The mood is somber, laced with a foreboding so thick, it's tangible. I find myself hoping that none of us will have to tell this family that their little girl won't be coming home.

G.o.ddard pulls the satchel that was found at the scene from an evidence bag and presents it to the parents. "We found this earlier. We're wondering if it's Annie's."

Edna stares at the bag for a moment, then takes it from him, her mouth quivering. "It is hers." She studies it, turning it over in her hands and appearing to search every inch of the fabric, as if the satchel holds the answers we all so desperately need. She raises her gaze, her eyes darting from the sheriff to Tomasetti and then to me. "Where did you find this?"

The sheriff answers. "Out on County Road 7."

I'm relieved when he doesn't mention the blood. Until it's identified as human-or confirmed as Annie's-there's no need to torture this family with information that may not be relevant.

"We've been praying for her safe return." Closing her eyes, Edna presses the bag to her chest. "Perhaps this is a sign she will be coming back to us." Her face collapses, but she doesn't make a sound. "We miss her," she whispers. "And we're worried. We want her back."

Levi sets his gaze on the sheriff. "Was there any other sign of her?"

The sheriff shakes his head. "We're going over the scene with a fine-tooth comb."

A sound to my right draws my attention. I look up and see a little Amish girl, half of her hidden behind the doorway, peeking at us with one eye. She's wearing a blue dress that looks like a hand-me-down. Her bare feet are slender, tanned, and dirty.

Levi raises his hand and points. "Ruthie, go help your sister in the garden." His voice is firm but holds a distinctly sad note, which tells me the words have less to do with the garden than with his not wanting her to bear witness to this discussion.

The girl eyes us a moment longer, then darts away, her bare feet slapping against the oak-plank floor.

"How many children do you have, Mrs. King?" Tomasetti asks.

"Eight," Edna tells him. "G.o.d blessed us with four girls and four boys."