He looks at the other two teens in the room as if they have the answers, not his son.

I remain silent, waiting, watching.

At the door, Rasmussen remains unobtrusive. But his eyes are watchful and sharp, and I’m glad he’s here to help me gauge reactions.

When no one speaks, I turn my attention to Lori Westfall. “You’re first,” I tell her. “Come with me.”

“Wh—where are you taking me?” she asks in a tremulous voice.

Without replying, I start toward my office.

Once inside, I slide behind my desk and extract a legal pad, pen, and an antiquated tape recorder from the drawer. Lori lowers herself into the visitor chair across from me, nearly jumping out of her skin when Rasmussen closes the door and leans against it.

I turn on the tape recorder and recite the date, time, and the names of all present. Then I turn my attention to the girl. “Why don’t you start by telling me about your relationship with Sadie.”

The girl stares at me as if I’ve come at her with a knife. “She’s my best friend,” she mumbles.

My interest surges. I knew the girls were friends, but I didn’t realize they were best friends. That’s unusual, since Sadie is Amish. It’s been a while since I was fifteen, but one thing I know will never change is that best friends tell each other everything.

“How did you meet her?” I ask.

“We met at the bridge. Last summer.”

“So you’ve known her for about a year?”

She nods.

“How is it that you became friends, when she’s Amish?”

“Most of the time, Sadie doesn’t seem very Amish.” The girl offers a pensive smile that reflects true affection. “She wears jeans and smokes and cusses. Sometimes I forget she’s different.”

“You don’t seem to have much in common with her.” I prod, hoping she’ll relax and elaborate and give me something—anything—useful.

Lori looks down and her hair falls forward, covering the sides of her face, as if she’s trying to hide behind it, and I realize this girl is painfully shy. “We just hit it off,” she tells me. “I mean, we’re both kind of outsiders, you know? Sadie because she’s Amish. Me because I’m not into the whole social clique thing.” She shrugs. “We don’t fit in, but when we’re together, that doesn’t matter.”

“When’s the last time you saw her?” I ask.

“Yesterday. Six o’clock or so. At the bridge.”

“How did she seem?”

“Same as always.” A ghost of a smile touches her mouth but vanishes quickly. “She was complaining about not having a car. She, like, wants wheels bad.”

“Why does she want a car?”

“She mainly just wants to cruise around.”

“Did she ever talk about leaving Painters Mill?”