On the bright side, it was time well spent. Though I didn’t learn anything earth-shattering, I met dozens of people and came one step closer to establishing my place in the community.

The incident with Marie Weaver and the three boys niggled at the back of my brain all afternoon. It’s true that some Amish teens fall prey to the same bad behaviors as their “English” counterparts; they’re human, and as fallible as anyone else. But generally speaking, the vast majority are well behaved and respectful, especially when their elders are around.

When I confronted Jacob Yoder, he was not only unrepentant but defiant. As if he’d known there would be no repercussions. I was left with the impression that the incident wasn’t an anomaly. I can’t help but wonder if Rachel Esh knew them, too. If she’d been treated with the same level of disrespect. Or worse.

On the surface, today’s worship service had been typical; it would have been an enjoyable and fulfilling experience for any visitor. But I’m no ordinary visitor, and more than once I’d sensed there was something off-kilter. Nothing I can put my finger on, but I felt a nearly indiscernible thread of tension, of watchfulness—maybe even paranoia. It’s as if everyone was following some carefully written script and being cautious not to veer from it. Especially when the topic of Eli Schrock arose.

Every individual I met spoke highly of the bishop. His belief system. His kindness and generosity. His strength and leadership. But the reverence with which those words were uttered didn’t quite ring true. There was something left unspoken.

My own impressions of the bishop are mixed. He gave me no reason to harbor suspicion. He’s a charismatic man, a natural leader, and outwardly friendly, while at the same time commanding respect. He’s an enthralling speaker and delivered a rousing preaching service. He knows the Amish tenets and certainly wields the power to enforce them. All that said, when I looked into his eyes, I saw a flash of something unexpected. Tucked beneath the layers of benevolence and caring and a keen intelligence, I saw secrets. An innate darkness I’ve observed before—in the eyes of criminals.

I’m trying to put all my observations into order and pin down the specifics of what’s bothering me as I unlock the door and let myself into the trailer. More than anything, I want a hot shower and a few hours of downtime. I want to curl up on the sofa with my phone and a blanket and call Tomasetti. But there’s one more thing I need to do before dark: I want to see the place where Rachel Esh’s body was found.

Toeing off my boots, I pull on an extra pair of socks and put the boots back on. I run my hand over the .22 strapped to my thigh, find it secure. My phone is still tucked away in my coat pocket. Though it’s only a little past four, dusk is already settling in. As much as I don’t want to get caught in unfamiliar woods after dark, I’m glad for the added cover. If someone catches me sniffing around the scene, I’ll have some explaining to do.