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.
I direct my attention to Roy. “It’s important,” I tell him. “There might be something there that will help us find her.”
After a moment, he nods. “Show her the room.”
Esther rises and motions toward the hall. “Come this way.”
The steep, narrow stairs creak beneath our feet as I follow her to the second level of the house. Sadie’s room is at the end of the hall. It’s a small space with a twin bed, a night table, and a pine chest wi
th four drawers. A white kapp and a black sweater hang from a single dowel on the wall above the bed. A window covered with gauzy curtains peers out over the front yard.
The room is cozy and neat. It might have been the bedroom of any typical Amish girl, but all semblances of plain end with the vast display of needlework. A green-and-white quilt utilizing several types of fabric that alter the texture in interesting ways covers the bed. Contrasting pillows, fabric layered with lace, and even a crocheted coverlet are piled against the headboard. The walls are white, but there’s nothing plain about them, because they’re plastered from floor to ceiling with fabric wall hangings. I see dark purple velvet layered with pink lace; red and purple fabrics sewn together with the avant-garde eye of an artisan—colors that are frowned upon by the Amish. Yet her parents allow her this small expression of individualism.
“Sadie loves to sew.” Esther says the words as if her daughter’s needlework requires justification. “She’s been doing the needlework since she was six years old.”
I can’t stop looking at the yards and yards of fabric, so painstakingly designed and sewn by the hands of a young girl with a passion her parents haven’t been able to eradicate or contain. In the back of my mind, I’m remembering my conversation with Sadie that day on the bridge. I’m drawn to all the things I shouldn’t be. Music and . . . art. I want to . . . read books and watch movies and see places I’ve never seen. I want to go to college and . . . I’m going to design clothes. I’m so good with the needle and thread. . . .
“She’s right,” I whisper.
Esther tilts her head. “What?”
“She’s very talented.”
Esther looks embarrassed as she crosses to the bed and picks up a pink-and-red pillow. “Perhaps we should not have allowed her so much individual expression.”
“Sometimes this kind of passion can’t be quelled.”
She looks unbearably sad, standing there holding the pillow. “We don’t approve of the colors. Sadie takes too much pride in her quilting. She’s willful. She can be disrespectful.” Yet she brings the pillow to her face and breathes in the scent of the daughter she misses so desperately.
The words, the reproach they contain, conjure an Amish proverb my mamm told me many times as a girl, especially when she was trying to get a recalcitrant me to do my chores. “Pride in your work puts joy in your day,” I whisper.
Tears spring into Esther’s eyes. She puts the pillow against her face as if to hide her tears and looks at me over the top of it. “She is a special girl with a good heart. A big heart.” She chokes out a laugh. “Perhaps too big.”
“I’ll do my best to find her.”
She sinks to her knees, as if her legs no longer have the strength to support her. Tears run unchecked down her cheeks as she lowers her face into her hands and begins to sob.
I give her shoulder a squeeze and then turn my attention to the room. There’s not much to search; the bedroom of a teenage Amish girl bears little resemblance to those of their English counterparts. I begin with the night table, finding a copy of Es Nei Teshtament, a Bible that’s written in both Pennsylvania Dutch and English. In the next drawer, I find a plain hairbrush and comb, a candle, a carved wooden bear.
Finding nothing of interest, I move on to the chest. The top drawer is filled with Walmart cotton bras and panties. There are also old-fashioned bloomers, a winter head covering in need of mending. I move to the next drawer and find several hand-sewn Amish dresses. In the bottom drawer, I find a pair of blue jeans tucked into the back, where no one would notice them unless she was looking.
Standing, I step back and look around, spot the sweater hanging on the dowel set into the wall. I check the pockets but come up empty-handed. I kneel and look beneath the bed, check the insides of the sneakers and leather shoes.
“Come on, Sadie,” I mutter as I cross to the bed.
I’m not sure what I’m looking for. The name of a boyfriend written in a notebook. A cell phone number or address scribbled on a scrap of paper. A letter with some helpful information. A diary. I lift the mattress and run my hand along the box spring. My fingers brush against paper. I pull out a Cosmopolitan magazine and stare down at the busty model in a low-cut red dress on the cover. The smile that emerges feels sad on my face.
“Where are you?” I whisper.
And I tuck the magazine back into its hiding place.
CHAPTER 14
I’m at the police station, standing in the hall outside the conference room with Sheriff Rasmussen. Inside, it’s a full house.
Angi McClanahan and her mother sit together at the table, eyeing us like a couple of pissed-off cats. Matt Butler and his father, Andy, sit one chair away from the McClanahans. Andy looks impatient and put out as he thumbs his BlackBerry. His son, Matt, is hunched over his own device, texting and grinning with equal fervor. On the opposite side of the table, Lori Westfall sits alone, trying to look tough. Despite the too-tight jeans, black eyeliner, and pierced eyebrow, she’s not doing a very good job.
“We need to split them up,” I say to the sheriff. “Talk to each of them separately. We can use my office. Let the rest of them stew in here.”
He nods. “Which one is the friend?”
I indicate Lori Westfall. “I don’t know how close they are, but she was with Sadie that day at the bridge.”
“Any idea where her parents are?” Rasmussen asks. “They should be here for this.”
I shake my head. “When I called her mother and told her I needed to speak with her daughter, she didn’t seem too interested. I think she dropped her off and went back to work.”
“Nice.” He sighs. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and she’ll tell us the Miller girl is at some tat shop in Wooster, getting her goddamn eyebrow pierced.”
We both know the outcome of this isn’t going to be as cut-and-dried.
When I step inside, the room goes silent and all eyes land on me. Rasmussen hangs back, giving me the floor. “I know everyone is busy, but I appreciate your coming.”
“Like we had a choice,” Angi McClanahan mutters.
Ignoring her, I turn my attention to Matt Butler, who’s so embroiled in texting that the building could be crumbling around him and he wouldn’t notice until a chunk of concrete hit him in the head. “The first thing I’m going to ask you to do,” I say, “is put away the cell phones. That includes you, Matt.”
The boy looks up, blinking, as if he’s been awakened from a dream, then powers down. His father tosses his BlackBerry and it clatters onto the table in front of him, letting me know in no uncertain terms that he’s an important man and doesn’t appreciate being pulled away from his day.
Too bad.
“What’s this all about, Chief Burkholder?” he asks.
“She’s got it out for our kids.” Kathleen McClanahan casts me a spiteful look. “They’re easier to bully than us adults.”
I don’t take the bait. “We have a missing teenager in Painters Mill. Fifteen-year-old Sadie Miller. She’s Amish and disappeared sometime last night.” I watch the reactions of each person as I relay the news, paying particular attention to Lori Westfall and Angi McClanahan.
Andy Butler looks appropriately appalled. “My God, I had no idea.”
Lori Westfall goes stone-still, her eyes looking everywhere except at me. I try to read her body language, her facial expressions, but she’s so stiff and unnatural, I can’t. Does she know something? Or is she as shocked and frightened as the rest of us and simply doesn’t know how to absorb the information?
Kathleen McClanahan doesn’t react. When I look at her daughter, Angi, some of the toughness falls away. Before her eyes skate away from mine, I see a flash of guilt, and I wonder about its source. Does she have a guilty conscience because she fought with Sadie? Or does she have another reason to blame herself? It wouldn’t be the first time bullying took an ominous turn.
I scan the group. “I need to know right now if any of you know where she is.”
“I
s it possible she ran away?” Andy asks me.
“Anything is possible at this point,” I tell him.
He looks at the other two teens in the room as if they have the answers, not his son.
I remain silent, waiting, watching.
At the door, Rasmussen remains unobtrusive. But his eyes are watchful and sharp, and I’m glad he’s here to help me gauge reactions.
When no one speaks, I turn my attention to Lori Westfall. “You’re first,” I tell her. “Come with me.”
“Wh—where are you taking me?” she asks in a tremulous voice.
Without replying, I start toward my office.
Once inside, I slide behind my desk and extract a legal pad, pen, and an antiquated tape recorder from the drawer. Lori lowers herself into the visitor chair across from me, nearly jumping out of her skin when Rasmussen closes the door and leans against it.
I turn on the tape recorder and recite the date, time, and the names of all present. Then I turn my attention to the girl. “Why don’t you start by telling me about your relationship with Sadie.”
The girl stares at me as if I’ve come at her with a knife. “She’s my best friend,” she mumbles.
My interest surges. I knew the girls were friends, but I didn’t realize they were best friends. That’s unusual, since Sadie is Amish. It’s been a while since I was fifteen, but one thing I know will never change is that best friends tell each other everything.
“How did you meet her?” I ask.
“We met at the bridge. Last summer.”
“So you’ve known her for about a year?”
She nods.
“How is it that you became friends, when she’s Amish?”
“Most of the time, Sadie doesn’t seem very Amish.” The girl offers a pensive smile that reflects true affection. “She wears jeans and smokes and cusses. Sometimes I forget she’s different.”