“Do you know her name?”

“I asked Noah about it once or twice.” Another sad smile. “But he wouldn’t speak of her.”

“Any idea why he didn’t want to say?”

She lifts her shoulders, lets them drop. “I don’t know. For whatever reason, he wasn’t ready, I suppose.”

I struggle to find the right words to ask her about the possibility of a pregnancy. “I thought it was interesting that he carved a baby rattle. Do you have any idea why he would make something for a baby?”

“At first I thought it was for the money. I thought maybe he was selling things to the shops in town.” Her expression turns sage, and she sets down her mug. “Let me show you something.”

We leave the kitchen. I follow her through the living room and up the stairs to the second level. Down a darkened hall toward a bedroom at the end. She pushes open the door and we walk inside. Like many Amish homes, there’s no closet. Clothing and hats are hung on hooks or dowels set into the wall. Boots are left in the mudroom downstairs.

“This was Noah’s room,” she tells me.

I notice a hand-carved wooden yo-yo on the table next to the bed. The handmade wooden rocker in the corner. Above the steel frame headboard, a wood wall-hanging depicts the faceless images of an Amish boy and girl. “He made some beautiful things,” I tell her.

Miriam goes directly to a wooden trunk at the foot of the twin-size bed and opens the lid. Something inside me quickens at the sight of the items inside. We kneel. With a certain reverence, she picks up a newborn’s onesie. A wooden teething ring. A rattle much like the one in my evidence bag. A double pack of baby bottles. I recognize the bibs from the Buckeye Baby Boutique in town.

When I glance over at Miriam, tears are streaming down her cheeks. “I don’t know why he had these things,” she whispers.

“It’s almost as if he was saving them for something,” I say gently. “Or someone.”

“In all the years Willis and I have been married, I’ve never lied to him. I’ve never kept anything from him. But I didn’t tell him about this.”

“Mrs. Fisher, did you hear about the newborn baby found on Bishop Troyer’s front porch?” I ask gently.

“I heard.” She lowers her gaze. “And I’ve been praying ever since.”

For the first time I understand why she didn’t want her husband to overhear our conversation. “I’m trying to find the mother,” I say softly.

We stare at each other, a silent communication passing between us. A silent voice telling us now is not the time for certain words.

“Goodness.” Forcing a laugh, the Amish woman brushes at the tears with both hands. “Would you look at me?”

“Miriam, is it all right with you if I take a look around Noah’s room?” I ask gently.

Her gaze slides to the window. “I suspect Willis will be in the barn for a while.…”