“I will be.” I pause, but she says nothing. “I saw one of the men strike the woman he was with.” I add a bit of attitude to my voice. “Do you think the bishop will be interested in that?”

She stops sweeping and looks at me as if she’d like nothing more than to hit me with the broom. Instead, she shakes her head. “The house is that-a-way.” She motions to a point farther down the lane. “Big farmhouse on the left. Can’t miss it.”

*   *   *

The trees thicken as I make my way down the lane and a sense of isolation surrounds me. Two hundred yards in, the branches curl overhead like black, arthritic fingers. I’m starting to wonder if the not-so-helpful woman gave me the wrong directions when I spot the old farmhouse nestled in the trees to my right. It’s a two-story brick structure that’s been painted white with a tin roof. No shutters. No winterized flowerbeds. No landscaping to speak of. Just hundreds of trees and, farther back, a massive bank barn and what looks like a good-size coop where a dozen or so hens scratch and peck at the yellow grass poking up through snow mottled with chicken shit.

A big dog of indistinguishable pedigree lumbers over to me, ears flopping, tongue lolling, emitting the occasional woof. He doesn’t look like a biter, or much of a watchdog, for that matter, but I give him a wide berth and head toward the front door.

I step onto a wood-plank porch that’s been painted gray. My boots thud softly as I make my way to the door and knock. A young Amish woman opens the door. I guess her to be in her late teens. Pretty face. Big brown eyes. She’s dressed modestly in a dark gray dress, black apron, and kapp. Plain clothes only go so far when it comes to obscuring the feminine silhouette, and this girl is hugely pregnant. Interesting.

“Guder mariye,” I begin. Good morning.

She opens the door wider. The smell of vinegar wafts out and I realize she’s cleaning. “Guder mariye.” Her voice is soft, like a child’s.

“I’m Kate Miller. I live down the road.”

I wait, but she doesn’t respond.

“Are you Bishop Schrock’s daughter?” I ask.

She looks down at the broom. I notice her red chapped hands. Nails chewed to the quick. “I just clean for him,” she tells me.

I want to ask her age, but fearing too many questions will set off red flags, I don’t. “What’s your name?”

“Esther.”

“What’s your last name?”

The girl looks away, doesn’t respond.

“Okay.” I clear my throat. “Is the bishop here? I need to speak to him.”

“In the barn.” She motions toward the bank barn, looking relieved to be rid of me.

“Danki.”

She closes the door without responding.