“Unless there are problems at home.”

I glance at him and nod. “Hopefully the bishop will be able to shed some light.”

I grab my Maglite, and Tomasetti and I take the sidewalk to the back door. I’ve not even knocked yet when the door opens and I find myself staring at the bishop. Clad in black with a long, steel-wool beard, eyes as dark and penetrating as mica, he’s still got that powerful presence that intimidated me so completely as a child.

“Katie.” His usually stern face is a mask of worry this morning.

“Bishop.” I look past him toward the kitchen. “Thank you for calling me.”

“It seemed like the right thing to do.” His eyes flick to Tomasetti.

Extending his hand for a shake, Tomasetti introduces himself, using his official title. “Is the baby healthy?” he asks.

“If that baby’s cry is any indication, she’s as healthy as a horse.” Stepping back, the bishop ushers us inside. “This way.”

The mudroom is dimly lit, too warm, and smells of coffee and frying scrapple, an Amish breakfast staple. The plank floor creaks beneath our shoes as we cross to the kitchen. I find the bishop’s wife, Ada, standing at the sink, cradling a small, wriggling bundle against her generous bosom.

“Guder mariye, Ada.” I bow my head slightly. Good morning.

She nods, but doesn’t smile. “Wie bischt du heit, Katie?” How are you this morning? The elderly woman’s eyes flick to Tomasetti and only then do I realize the discomfort on her face is due to the fact that she’s wearing a plain flannel nightgown, with an oversize cardigan and well-worn socks.

I cross to her and look down at the bundle. Tomasetti holds his ground just inside the doorway. Ada opens a flap, exposing a tiny, wrinkled face and cloudy blue eyes. “She’s a pretty little thing,” the Amish woman tells me.

“A girl?” I ask.

The woman nods. “I checked. And brand-new, too. Cord is still attached.”

I stare down at the small, alienlike creature and a combination of affection and uneasiness presses into me. I’ve not spent much time around babies. In fact, I’ll be the first to admit I’m more than a little out of my element. Even so, there’s nothing more heartrending than to look into the eyes of such a tiny and vulnerable human being and know someone abandoned her.

“I’ll just let you hold her while I get dressed.”

Before I can object, the Amish woman places her gently in my arms. She must have sensed my hesitation—or maybe the instant of panic in my eyes—because she chuckles. “Keep her head in the crook of your arm to support it.” Bending slightly—ignoring my discomfort—she coos at the baby. “Just like that.”

Tugging the cardigan around her, she nods at Tomasetti and leaves the kitchen.

I’m staring down at the baby in my arms, relieved she’s not crying. I’m already looking to hand her off to someone else. I’m aware of Tomasetti moving closer to get a look at her face.