“To tell us to stay away from you,” she tells me. “You’re not one of us. You’re an outsider and not to be trusted.”

For an instant, I wonder if my cover has been compromised. Uneasiness quivers in my gut. Then I realize she’s referring to the Amish edict of separation. “Because I’m from Ohio?” I ask. “Because I’m not a member of the church district? Or is it something else?”

“You don’t know the rules here,” Abe says. “You don’t know how things are done.”

“Exactly how are things done?” I send a pointed look toward his hand. The huge bandage. The blood soaking through. “What did they do to you?”

The Amish man looks away. I’m about to try again when Mary speaks. When she does, her voice is so low I have to lean close to hear. “They cut off his finger.”

A shudder rises in my chest, but I tamp it down. “Who?”

“We think it was Jacob Yoder and Jonas Smucker,” she replies. “They were wearing ski masks, but I knew. We’ve known them since they were boys.”

Abe jerks his head. “Yoder held me down. Smucker cut it off.”

“With bolt cutters,” Mary adds. “There was nothing we could do.”

A chill hovers at the base of my spine. “Why?”

Mary turns from the door and gives me a hard look. “We’re to stay away from you.”

“They didn’t do this on their own,” I say. “Someone told them to do it.”

I give them time to respond, but neither speaks.

“Was it Eli Schrock?” I ask.

The couple stares at me as if I’ve said something blasphemous. “We can’t say,” Abe tells me.

“Can’t or won’t?” I drill Mary with a hard look.

Again, no response. Neither Abe nor Mary makes eye contact with me.

“An Amish bishop would never hurt anyone,” I tell them. “Never.”

Neither of them has anything to say about that.

I lower my voice. “Do you know what happened to Rachel Esh?”

Gasping, Mary puts her hand over her mouth, covers a sound of distress, of pain. I can’t help but notice her fingers are trembling.

Her husband reaches for her, moving between us as if to shield her from my words, from me. “Do not speak ill of the bishop.” He’s so upset his voice quavers. “Leave us,” he orders. “I think it would be best if you didn’t come back.”

*   *   *

“Cut off his fucking finger? Are you shitting me?”

Suggs’s voice is so loud I have to hold my cell away from my ear. “Just like the woman at the shop.”

“Jesus. That’s … brutal.” He takes a moment as if to let the image I described to him earlier settle in his mind. “It’s enough for me to pick up Yoder and Smucker.”