My nerves tighten at the thought of exposing my sewing skills—or lack thereof—to any of the women, most of whom know their way around a sewing kit. But since the Amish grapevine begins with the heart of the family—the women—it’s an opportunity I can’t pass up.

“I’d love to.”

*   *   *

Misconceptions about undercover work run rampant—even within law enforcement circles. While there’s no doubt it can be high octane, the lion’s share consists of building your cover, making yourself visible, and, of course, waiting—the bane of most cops. There’s not much you can do to rush the process. Push too hard, and you risk the suspicion of those you’re investigating. Sit back on your heels, and you get nothing.

I like to think I’ve found the middle road. I’ve made myself known, asking questions without ruffling too many feathers, and I’ve garnered a good bit of information. It’s premature to determine if any of it will result in anything useful, but it’s a solid start.

I spent the afternoon at the shop—time that passed with particular slowness. There were few customers, and although I tried multiple times to strike up a conversation with Laura, she wasn’t in the mood for chitchat. I used the time to purchase a few additional sewing supplies: several yards of fabric, four spools of thread, and a new pair of shears. I left town a little after two o’clock, and back at the trailer, I set to work on the simplest sewing project I could think of: potholders—an activity I haven’t partaken in for twenty years.

It doesn’t take long for me to realize I’ve lost what little skill I had acquired as a teenager. As I use the seam ripper to remove my less-than-stellar stitching, I find myself wishing I’d purchased a few more items from the sewing shop in Painters Mill so I could pass them off as my own work and avoid sewing altogether.

By four P.M., restless and frustrated and freezing cold, I pull my personal cell phone from beneath the mattress and dial the one person who can make me feel better.

“I thought the Amish went to bed early,” he begins without preamble.

At the sound of his voice, the tension clamped around the back of my neck relaxes. “Not this early.”

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“You mean aside from me freezing my ass off, dying of boredom, and basically getting nowhere?”

“You knew going in that impersonating an Amish woman wasn’t exactly going to be life on the edge.”

“No TV. No radio. No electricity. And very little damn heat.” I sigh. “It makes me realize just how far I’ve moved away from my roots.”