I didn’t get much sleep last night. Not because I didn’t make good with Tomasetti. I did. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the assignment. I couldn’t stop anticipating all the things that could go wrong or wondering if I have what it will take to pull it off. Maybe Tomasetti was right. Maybe I’d get up there and find myself in over my head. Then I thought of the dead fifteen-year-old Amish girl, the forty children at risk, and an Amish community that has fallen under suspicion, and I realized I didn’t have a choice. All I can do is my best. It’s all any of us can offer. I hope it’s enough.

I rose early and left while Tomasetti was in the shower. I called Betancourt on my way to the station. He must have driven through the night because he was back in New York and already at his office.

“How soon do you need someone up there?” I begin without preamble.

“How fast can you get here?”

“I have a few things I need to tie up.” In the back of my mind, I’m already thinking about how the mayor and town council will react to a request for leave. “If you could e-mail me an official request, I’ll present it to the mayor.”

“Whatever you need, Chief. We appreciate your agreeing to come up here and lend us a hand. I know it’s a sacrifice to be away from home and your family and your own jurisdiction.”

“What kind of time frame are we looking at?” I ask.

“It’s hard to say. It’s going to depend on how quickly you can get in there and figure out what’s going on. Could be a week or a month.” He chuckles. “Hell, might be that there’s nothing going on.”

Neither of us believe it.

“I’m going to need an identity,” I tell him. “Social Security number. Address. In Ohio, most of the Amish carry ID cards. Tomasetti or Bates can probably help me get one under an assumed name.”

“You’ll need a work history,” he says, thinking aloud, and I’m reminded of Tomasetti telling me that neither Betancourt nor Suggs have thought this thing through.…

“Might be better if I did domestic work in the past,” I tell him. “I cleaned houses for people. Got paid in cash.”

“That’s good,” he says. “Nothing to trace.”

“Amish names are pretty specific, too.”

“Ah … that’s a little out of my area of expertise. You got a name in mind?”

I think about it a moment. “I’ll go by Kate Miller. That’s a common Amish surname here in Ohio. Thirty-five years old. Born August nineteenth.” I rattle off the address of a recently abandoned house on the outskirts of Millersburg. “I rented a farmhouse outside of Millersburg.”

“Did you stay up all night thinking about this stuff?”

“Actually, I did.”

“A lot of lies to keep straight.”

“I’d better get used to it.” We laugh, but my nerves are zinging.