I look at the girl. For the first time I notice the red welt on her cheek. The anger and humiliation simmering in her eyes. I wonder if she has other marks in places no one can see.

“I could use some help loading my things into the buggy,” I tell her. “Would you give me a hand?”

For an instant, she looks torn. She doesn’t want to be here, and yet she doesn’t want to acquiesce in front of these boys. I turn my attention to Yoder. “You can help, too, if you’d like.”

No one moves. No one replies. I look at Marie, sending a silent communication that she should come with me. She gives me nothing in return. Nodding at the boys, I turn and take a few steps toward the barn. When I glance back, I see the girl following.

Raucous laughter chases us as we wend through the trees and take the path toward the barn. Neither of us speaks until we reach the outhouses.

“What was that all about?” I ask as we step onto the stone walkway.

“We were just goofing off,” she mumbles.

I motion toward her cheek. “Is that how you got that mark on your face?”

“I did that on a tree branch.” She stops walking and gives me a who-the-fuck-are-you-anyway look. “Why do you care? I don’t even know who you are.”

“I just moved here.” I jab a thumb in the general direction of the boys. “I didn’t like what I saw back there.”

She stares at me, her expression set and stubborn. “You don’t know what you saw.”

“Maybe I ought to tell the bishop.”

Her mouth opens. Apprehension flashes in her eyes. “That’ll only make things worse.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“The bishop doesn’t like me.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. He just doesn’t. He thinks…” She lets the words trail. “Forget it.”

Her body language tells me she doesn’t want to go back to the barn. But she doesn’t want to stand here talking to me, either, so I let her off the hook. “I don’t have anything that needs loading.”

“I wasn’t going to help you with it, anyway.” Making a teen’s customary sound of annoyance, she turns and walks into the outhouse. I wait, trying to decide if I should ask her about Rachel Esh. According to Anna, the girls were best friends. If anyone has an insight into Rachel’s life—or her death—it’s Marie. I go to the edge of the porch area and look out over the woods. Marie emerges a minute later, shoots me a nasty glare, and starts toward the barn without speaking.

I fall into step beside her. “I just realized where I heard your name,” I say slowly. “You were the Esh girl’s best friend.”