I turn a cold look on Angi. The scratch marks on her throat are healing, but they’re still visible, so I use them to my advantage. “Where did you get those marks on your throat?”

The girl raises a hand, her fingers fluttering at her neck. “They’re old. I got them that day on the bridge.”

“How did you get them?” I repeat.

“That psycho Amish girl attacked her,” her mother interjects.

“I’d like to hear that from Angi,” I say, never taking my eyes from the teenager.

“She ain’t saying nothing without a fucking lawyer, you goddamn Nazi bitch.”

Holding Angi with my gaze, I lean back in my chair. “Thank you for your time. That’ll be all for now.”

“That was fun,” Rasmussen says.

It’s half an hour later, and Rasmussen and I are in my office. I’m sitting behind my desk, trying to resist the urge to pound my head against its surface.

“She didn’t run away,” I tell him. “Someone took her.”

My phone rings, and I put it on speaker. “What’s up, Lois?”

“I just took a call from Elaina Reiglesberger out on County Road 14, Chief. She claims her daughter was out riding and saw Sadie Miller get into a car yesterday.”

Hope jumps through me and then I’m on my feet and reaching for my keys. “Tell her I’m on my way.”

Rasmussen is already through the door. “Here’s to a witness with good recall.”

I’m on my way to talk to the purported witness when the call from Tomasetti comes in. “I hope you’re calling with good news,” I say in lieu of a greeting.

“I wish I was.”

“Shit, Tomasetti, you’re not going to ruin my day, are you?”

He sighs. “Coroner says Annie King sustained a fatal stab wound. She bled to death.”

Something inside me sinks, like a rock tossed into water and dropping softly onto a sandy bottom. “Goddamn it.”

It’s times like this when that voice in my head tells me I’m not cut out for police work. I’ve done this before. Receiving this kind of news shouldn’t be so hard.

Tomasetti says something else, but I don’t hear the words. I pull onto the shoulder, brake with so much force that the tires skid. For several seconds, I sit there, trying to get a grip. I want to punch something; I want to rant and rave at the unfairness of death. Because I’m terrified the same fate awaits Sadie.

“What kind of a monster does that to a fifteen-year-old girl?” I whisper.

He knows I don’t mean the question literally; it doesn’t require an answer. What he also understands is that I need to find the person responsible and stop him. “Sooner or later, he’ll fuck up,” he tells me. “They always do. When that happens, we’ll get him.”