I go to her and try not to feel awkward as I put my arms around her. She smells of clean clothes and summertime, the way my mamm used to smell, and for a split second I find myself longing for all the hugs I never received. I can feel my sister shaking within my embrace. “Any news?” I ask, easing her to arm’s length.

She shakes her head. “No.”

I turn my attention to Sadie’s mother. Esther Miller is a stout woman with a round, freckled face and a port-wine birthmark the size of a quarter on the left side of her nose. Her brown hair is streaked with silver and pulled into a severe bun at her nape. When we were teenagers, she was funny and opinionated and had a rebellious attitude that appealed greatly to my own sense of dissent. We spent many an afternoon at Miller’s Pond, smoking cigarettes and talking about things we shouldn’t have been talking about, most of which revolved around boys and makeup and all the mysteries that lay ahead—edgy stuff for a couple of Amish girls. Then came the day she walked up on me as I was making out with Jimmie Bates, and that was the end of my first friendship. Esther told her mamm and, of course, her mamm told mine. It was my first brush with betrayal, and it hurt. In the end, Esther’s mother forbade her to see me, and we never spoke again.

As I look into my former friend’s eyes and offer my hand, I find myself searching for the young rebel I’d once known so intimately, the girl who could put me in stitches no matter how dark my mood. But time has erased all traces of that girl. Instead, I see a stern, frightened woman whose eyes are filled with mistrust. “Katie, thank you for coming,” she says. “Come in.”

I follow her through a narrow mudroom, past an old wringer washing machine, a row of muck boots lined up neatly on the floor, and three flat-brimmed straw hats hung on wooden dowels set into the wall. We go through a doorway and enter a large kitchen that smells of sausage and yeast bread. Sheriff Rasmussen sits at the table, talking to Roy Miller, Sadie’s father. He looks up when I enter, and I think I see relief in his expression.

“Chief Burkholder.” Rising, Rasmussen crosses to me and extends his hand. “Welcome back.”

I give his hand a firm shake. “Where’s Glock?”

“He’s talking to the bishop.”

“Chief.”

I turn at the sound of Glock’s voice and see him and Bishop Troyer enter the kitchen. Bowing my head slightly in respect, I greet the bishop first in Pennsylvania Dutch. Then I focus on Glock and Rasmussen. “Bring me up to speed.”