One look at my sister and the anger I felt toward her earlier evaporates.
“Oh, Katie.” Her voice breaks on my name.
I go to her and try not to feel awkward as I put my arms around her. She smells of clean clothes and summertime, the way my mamm used to smell, and for a split second I find myself longing for all the hugs I never received. I can feel my sister shaking within my embrace. “Any news?” I ask, easing her to arm’s length.
She shakes her head. “No.”
I turn my attention to Sadie’s mother. Esther Miller is a stout woman with a round, freckled face and a port-wine birthmark the size of a quarter on the left side of her nose. Her brown hair is streaked with silver and pulled into a severe bun at her nape. When we were teenagers, she was funny and opinionated and had a rebellious attitude that appealed greatly to my own sense of dissent. We spent many an afternoon at Miller’s Pond, smoking cigarettes and talking about things we shouldn’t have been talking about, most of which revolved around boys and makeup and all the mysteries that lay ahead—edgy stuff for a couple of Amish girls. Then came the day she walked up on me as I was making out with Jimmie Bates, and that was the end of my first friendship. Esther told her mamm and, of course, her mamm told mine. It was my first brush with betrayal, and it hurt. In the end, Esther’s mother forbade her to see me, and we never spoke again.
As I look into my former friend’s eyes and offer my hand, I find myself searching for the young rebel I’d once known so intimately, the girl who could put me in stitches no matter how dark my mood. But time has erased all traces of that girl. Instead, I see a stern, frightened woman whose eyes are filled with mistrust. “Katie, thank you for coming,” she says. “Come in.”
I follow her through a narrow mudroom, past an old wringer washing machine, a row of muck boots lined up neatly on the floor, and three flat-brimmed straw hats hung on wooden dowels set into the wall. We go through a doorway and enter a large kitchen that smells of sausage and yeast bread. Sheriff Rasmussen sits at the table, talking to Roy Miller, Sadie’s father. He looks up when I enter, and I think I see relief in his expression.
“Chief Burkholder.” Rising, Rasmussen crosses to me and extends his hand. “Welcome back.”
I give his hand a firm shake. “Where’s Glock?”
“He’s talking to the bishop.”
“Chief.”
I turn at the sound of Glock’s voice and see him and Bishop Troyer enter the kitchen. Bowing my head slightly in respect, I greet the bishop first in Pennsylvania Dutch. Then I focus on Glock and Rasmussen. “Bring me up to speed.”
The sheriff responds first. “The parents think Sadie slipped out of her bedroom window sometime last night after seven. When Mr. Miller went into her room this morning at four-thirty, she was gone.”
“Have you talked to neighbors?” I’m aware that the bishop and Esther and Roy Miller are watching me, and I glance their way, letting them know they should jump in with any additional information.
“We interviewed neighbors on both sides,” Glock replies. “No one saw anything.”
I look at Esther. “Are any of her clothes missing?”
The Amish woman shakes her head. “I checked her room. There is nothing missing.”
“Is it possible she had some English clothes stashed somewhere?” I ask.
“Sadie would not,” Esther tells me. “She is modest.”
The last time I saw Sadie, she was wearing painted-on jeans and a shirt tight enough to squeeze the air from her lungs. I wonder how these parents could be so out of touch. But I know that’s not fair. Amish or English, plenty of teens partake in behavior their parents will never comprehend.
“Sadie was wearing English clothes the day I brought her home,” I say.
Roy Miller looks down at the floor.
Esther stares at me as if I’m purposefully adding to their anguish. “We don’t allow English clothes in this house,” she tells me.
I turn my attention to Glock. “Amber Alert is out?”
“About two hours ago.” He glances at his watch. “State Highway Patrol has been notified. We called everyone we could think of, Chief. Skid’s putting together some volunteers to search the greenbelt to the north. T.J. and Pickles are canvassing.”
“We got dogs coming in from Coshocton County,” Rasmussen adds.
I catch both men’s eyes and gesture toward the next room. As inconspicuously as possible, I sidle into the living area and they follow. When we’re out of earshot of the parents and Bishop Troyer, I lower my voice. “We found the body of the missing girl in Buck Creek.”
“Aw shit,” Rasmussen mutters. “Homicide?”
“The coroner hasn’t made an official ruling yet, but we think so.”
Glock narrows his gaze. “You think this is related?”
Considering the outcome of Annie King’s disappearance, that’s the one scenario I don’t want to consider. I’m still hopeful Sadie left of her own accord and we’re dealing with a runaway situation instead.
I sigh. “I think we need to treat this as a missing endangered.”
“Painters Mill is farther away than the towns where other girls went missing,” Rasmussen says.
“Maybe he’s expanding his area,” Glock offers.
“Did Sadie’s parents mention any problems at home?” I ask them. “A recent argument or disagreement? Anything like that?”
Rasmussen shakes his head. “They said everything was fine.”
“What about a boyfriend?” I ask.
“They say no.”
The parents are always the last to know. Tomasetti’s words float through my mind. I hate it, but he’s right.
“The parents probably don’t have a clue,” I say quietly, and I realize the two men are looking at me as if I’m the proverbial expert on out-of-control teenage Amish girls.
“Sadie was considering leaving the Amish way of life,” I explain. “It might be that she’s with a boy her parents don’t know about. Or maybe she took off to teach all of us idiots a lesson.”
“We need to talk to her friends,” Rasmussen says.
“I’ve got some names we can start with.” I look at Glock. “Pick up Angi McClanahan. Matt Butler. And Lori Westfall. Take them to the station. Parents, too. No one’s in trouble, but I want to talk to them.”
“I’m all over it.” Glock starts toward the door.
Rasmussen and I fall silent, both of us caught in our own thoughts. “I’m going to talk to the mother,” I tell him. “Take a look at Sadie’s room.”
“You want some help?
“Might be better if I do it alone.”
“Gotcha.”
Roy and Esther glance up from their places at the table when I return to the kitchen. They look broken, sitting in their chairs with their hollow eyes and restless, unoccupied hands. It’s only been a few days since I last saw them, but they look as if they’ve aged ten years. Roy is a tall, thin man with a long red beard that reaches to his belly. He’s wearing black work trousers with a blue shirt and suspenders.
“I’d like to see Sadie’s room,” I tell them.
For a moment, they stare at me as if I’m speaking in some language they don’t understand. Then Esther looks at her husband. “We could show her,” she says.
Impatience coils inside me. The Amish are a patriarchal society. The men make the rules and usually have the final say in matters. While most wives have a voice and their opinions are generally respected, they usually submit to their husbands’ wishes.