I give her shoulder a squeeze and then turn my attention to the room. There’s not much to search; the bedroom of a teenage Amish girl bears little resemblance to those of their English counterparts. I begin with the night table, finding a copy of Es Nei Teshtament, a Bible that’s written in both Pennsylvania Dutch and English. In the next drawer, I find a plain hairbrush and comb, a candle, a carved wooden bear.

Finding nothing of interest, I move on to the chest. The top drawer is filled with Walmart cotton bras and panties. There are also old-fashioned bloomers, a winter head covering in need of mending. I move to the next drawer and find several hand-sewn Amish dresses. In the bottom drawer, I find a pair of blue jeans tucked into the back, where no one would notice them unless she was looking.

Standing, I step back and look around, spot the sweater hanging on the dowel set into the wall. I check the pockets but come up empty-handed. I kneel and look beneath the bed, check the insides of the sneakers and leather shoes.

“Come on, Sadie,” I mutter as I cross to the bed.

I’m not sure what I’m looking for. The name of a boyfriend written in a notebook. A cell phone number or address scribbled on a scrap of paper. A letter with some helpful information. A diary. I lift the mattress and run my hand along the box spring. My fingers brush against paper. I pull out a Cosmopolitan magazine and stare down at the busty model in a low-cut red dress on the cover. The smile that emerges feels sad on my face.

“Where are you?” I whisper.

And I tuck the magazine back into its hiding place.

CHAPTER 14

I’m at the police station, standing in the hall outside the conference room with Sheriff Rasmussen. Inside, it’s a full house.

Angi McClanahan and her mother sit together at the table, eyeing us like a couple of pissed-off cats. Matt Butler and his father, Andy, sit one chair away from the McClanahans. Andy looks impatient and put out as he thumbs his BlackBerry. His son, Matt, is hunched over his own device, texting and grinning with equal fervor. On the opposite side of the table, Lori Westfall sits alone, trying to look tough. Despite the too-tight jeans, black eyeliner, and pierced eyebrow, she’s not doing a very good job.

“We need to split them up,” I say to the sheriff. “Talk to each of them separately. We can use my office. Let the rest of them stew in here.”

He nods. “Which one is the friend?”

I indicate Lori Westfall. “I don’t know how close they are, but she was with Sadie that day at the bridge.”

“Any idea where her parents are?” Rasmussen asks. “They should be here for this.”