Pulling her arm away, she rises so abruptly that the chair legs screech across the floor. Without looking at me, she shoves it against the table. The shop no longer feels homey or cozy or even comfortable. It feels like a dangerous place that’s exposed and watched.

“I can’t.” Turning away, she walks to the counter.

I rise and follow. “Did someone hurt Rebecca?”

“I shouldn’t have told you any of this. I shouldn’t be burdening you with my worries.”

“I’m glad you did.” When she says nothing, I add, “That’s what friends are for.”

When she turns to face me, she’s pulled herself together. Her eyes are cool when they meet mine. “I think it’s time you went home, Kate.”

“But what about—”

She cuts me off. “If you’re smart, you’ll forget we ever had this conversation.”

Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

Everything I learned from Laura Hershberger and the other women at the quilt shop churns in my brain as I take the scooter bike back to the trailer. Bishops don’t take teenage girls into their home to “counsel.” They don’t send teenaged boys away without the blessing of the children’s parents. Families don’t flee their homes in the middle of the night.

Unless they’re frightened of something. Or someone.

What really happened to Rebecca and her family? All I can do at this point is continue to ask questions. Keep digging. In the interim, I’ll pass along the information to Suggs so he can run the names. Hopefully, he’ll be able to locate them and find out what happened.

It’s nearly dark by the time I arrive at the trailer. While soup heats on the stove, I call Suggs and recap my conversation with Laura Hershberger. “The grandson never came back. Allegedly, he was sent to Missouri to help an elderly couple after their family was killed in a buggy accident.”

“That’s checkable. I’ll get with the highway patrol down there and see if they can get me stats on fatality accidents involving buggies. And of course I’ll run their names.”

“While you’re at it run the parents and the two girls, too, will you? Last name Beiler.” I spell it for him. “I don’t know the girls’ first names, but I’ll work on it.”

“All right.” He sighs. “Damn, this whole thing stinks. Kids disappearing. Entire families running in the middle of the night.” He goes silent and then asks, “You been able to get a look at any of the kids around there?”

“I saw a few at worship on Sunday. No visible signs of physical abuse. Most were bundled up, but no odd behavior or marked up faces.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

Neither of us mentions the fact that some of the worst kind of abuse doesn’t leave physical marks.