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 Goddard begins. “We’d like to talk to you about your daughter.”
The Amish man’s expression remains impassive as his eyes move from Goddard to Tomasetti and me.
Goddard 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 Goddard. “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,” Goddard 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 déjà 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. Scraped-clean plates and a smattering of flatware and a few drinking glasses 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 God 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 apron, 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 Goddard 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, Goddard, 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.
Goddard 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. “God blessed us with four girls and four boys.”
As inconspicuously as possible, I pull out my note pad. “How old are they?”
“David is our youngest. He’s three.” She chokes out a laugh. “I think you met him when you came to the door. He’s shy with strangers, especially the Englischers, you know. Annie is the oldest.” Her voice falters, but she takes a moment, gathers herself. “She’s fifteen. . . . Lydia is thirteen. . . .” She lets her words trail off, as if there are too many children to name. “They’re worried about their sister.”
“When did you realize Annie was missing?” I ask.
The woman casts a glance at her husband, then looks down at her hands. They’re red and chapped, the nails bitten to the quick. “Yesterday afternoon. We sent her out for corn and tomatoes. She gets restless, you know. She’s at that age.”
“What time was that?”