Crossing to the bar that separates the kitchen from the living area, I pick up a book of matches and light the lantern. I go to the kitchen and put a match to the lantern on the kitchen table, turning up the wick for maximum light. Keeping one eye on the girl, I check the clock on the wall. Three A.M.

She looks like a kid sitting there, shivering, probably half lit on beer, her leg jiggling a hundred miles an hour. Tufts of hair stick out of her kapp. She’s got dirty hands. I remind myself this girl is only sixteen years old. Troubled. Vulnerable. The perfect victim for a cult.

“You want something hot to drink?” I ask. “To warm up?”

“Some whiskey would hit the spot.”

“Fresh out.” I go to the stove, run water into the kettle for two cups, and set it over the flame. “What are you doing out so late all by yourself?”

She lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “Just hanging.”

“With who?”

“No one in particular.”

“Uh huh.” I snag two mugs from the cupboard, set them on the counter. “Your parents know you’re out?”

“No.”

She lifts her hand, picks at a hangnail. Her fingernails are painted green and chipped at the tips. For the first time I notice she’s wearing jeans. A red sweater. A cheap pair of boots that don’t look very warm. The hems of her pants are wet. She’s been out in the cold and snow for quite some time.

The kettle begins to whistle, so I pour water over teabags, set one of the mugs in front of her, and, carrying my own mug, take the chair across from her.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “Why are you here?”

The girl is shivering so hard she spills a little bit of her tea on the table and, without apologizing for the spill, slurps loudly.

My curiosity grows while I wait, but I opt to give her a few minutes before questioning her.

“I think they killed her,” she whispers without looking at me.

My heart bumps hard against my chest. I know to whom she’s referring, but I ask anyway. “Rachel Esh?”

She nods. “She was my best friend. She didn’t deserve what happened. I miss her.” She closes her eyes for a moment. “I’m scared because I think they want me gone, too.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Schrock. The people he surrounds himself with.”

“How do you know this?”

“It’s complicated.”

“We have all night.”

She digs into her pocket. Simultaneously, I reach into mine, set my hand on the pistol. Marie pulls out a pack of Marlboro Reds and lights up without asking permission. I consider taking it away from her and tossing it out, but I want her talking so I let her light up.

“Rachel was staying with Schrock when she died,” she says after a moment.