I find myself staring into an ocean of winter-dead trees tangled with vines and a few evergreens. To the west, the land dips down and over the tops of the trees, I see the smooth white surface of a plowed field. Remembering the aerial photos, I realize that beyond the field is a good-size creek.

A shriek breaks the silence. I look around, try to discern the direction from which it came and the nature of the sound. Spotting tracks, I leave the walkway and follow them down the hill. I’ve only gone a few yards when I hear male laughter. Youthful. More than one. I change direction slightly, my boots nearly silent against the snow.

The trees open to a clearing where four Amish teenagers have gathered. Three boys and one girl. At first I think they’ve slipped away to hang out and have some harmless fun. Then one of the boys lunges forward and shoves the girl using both hands. She reels backward, arms flailing, and lands on her behind in the snow. Instinct kicks in and before I can stop myself I move out of the trees. The three boys turn toward me, mouths open, arms loose. I see surprise on their faces. A topical uneasiness tells me they’re not overly alarmed by my presence. The boy who shoved the girl casts me an annoyed glare. He’s disappointed I had the gall to interrupt.

I look at the girl, recognize her immediately: Marie Weaver. “Are you all right?”

Getting to her feet, she brushes snow from her coat. “I’m fine.”

I turn my attention to the boy who shoved her. He’s about nineteen years old. Sandy hair. Bad haircut. Vivid blue eyes. An attitude I’m no stranger to, especially when it comes to young males pumped up on testosterone. He might’ve been attractive if not for the angry patches of acne on his cheeks and the bad attitude in his eyes.

“What’s your name?” The question is out—in my cop’s voice no less—an instant before I remind myself who I am and why I’m here. Amish women aren’t pushovers, but they’re not as assertive as I am, especially when it comes to men.

In the periphery of my vision, I see the other boys exchange looks that relay the question: Who the hell is she? The one I’m addressing meets my gaze head on and holds it. “Jacob Yoder.”

The boy who’d been courting Rachel Esh.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask.

“We could ask you the same thing.”

I glance over to the other boy to my left. Dark brown hair. Too long with blunt-cut bangs. Pale skin. Brown eyes. A sharp retort dangles on my tongue, but I curb it. Instead, I stare hard at him until he looks away and I turn my attention back to the girl. “What’s going on?”

She looks over her shoulder as if the answer lies somewhere within the trees. “We were just goofing off,” she mumbles.