“No one’s hurt. But I’m going to take a look around. If she’s here, I’ll get on the radio. But I’m probably going to be tied up for an hour or so.”

“Roger that, Chief. I’ll keep you posted on Kester.”

“Be careful,” I say, but he’s already disconnected.

I clip the phone to my belt. Naomi has gone into the kitchen. I find her at the sink, washing dishes and stacking them on a strainer. “Mrs. Kaufman, I’m going to need to take that pot with me.”

“Do what you must, Chief Burkholder. But I think it’s just silly to think Abby would put poke in there on purpose. If it’s in there at all, it was an accident.”

“I hope you’re right.” But I know she’s not. I find two mismatched pot holders in a drawer, grab the hot Dutch oven, take it through the living room, and elbow my way through the front door.

Naomi trails me as far as the porch. “You’re wrong about Abby.”

Ignoring her, I go down the steps, pop the trunk of the Crown Vic, and set the pot inside. That’s when I notice the buggy wheel marks in the moist ground next to the gravel. I kneel for a closer look. I’m no tracker, but the marks look recent.

Naomi stands on the porch, watching me, her arms crossed in front of her. “Mrs. Kaufman, how does Mr. Kaufman get to the clinic?”

“That Yoder Toter from Dundee picks him up and drives him up to Wooster,” she says.

“Has there been a buggy here today?”

“She drives a van.”

I look around. There are plenty of places to hide on this large farm. There are cornfields, impenetrable woods, and two huge barns.

“Mrs. Kaufman, I’d like to take a look around. Is that all right with you?”

“Let me put on my muckers.” The Amish woman turns and goes back inside.

I don’t wait for her. Ever present in the periphery of my thoughts is the knowledge that when someone reaches the low of murdering family members, sometimes suicide is the next step. A sense of urgency pushes me into a jog. I cross the gravel to the barn and slide the big door open several feet. Shadows play hide-and-seek in the murky light. I get the impression of a large area with a dirt floor and a low ceiling strung with cobwebs. The smells of old wood, rotting hay, and damp earth tickle my nose. I look down, seeking buggy wheel marks, but there are none.

“Abigail Kaufman!” I call out. “It’s Kate Burkholder with the Painters Mill PD! I need to talk to you!”