“We have a witness who claims Gilfillan with the Twelve Passages Church had contact with Annie King, targeted her for recruiting. Goddard brought him in for questioning.

In terms of the case, unearthing that kind of connection is huge. “You don’t sound too excited.”

“Witness is a flaky son of a bitch. Known meth user. Disgruntled because he was kicked out of the church.”

“So he’s got an ax to grind.”

“Maybe.” But his voice is uncertain. “Or maybe Mr. Meth is telling the truth and Annie King didn’t want to be recruited and things went sour. I’m working on a search warrant now.”

I think about Gilfillan in terms of Sadie’s disappearance. “Does he have an alibi for last night?”

“He claims he was home. Alone.”

The need to be there, to talk to Gilfillan myself, burns through me. Is it possible the self-proclaimed pastor is preying on Amish youths who are confused about the religious path they want to follow?

“Keep me posted,” I say.

“You know I will.”

CHAPTER 16

One of the most difficult aspects of a long-term investigation—especially a case in which someone’s life is in jeopardy—is knowing when to call it a night. I know it’s a self-defeating mind-set; everyone needs sleep. But I invariably feel as if I’m turning my back on the victim when I go home. The truth of the matter is, I don’t know how to stop being a cop. How can I go home to eat or sleep or sit on my sofa and watch TV when a young girl is depending on me to find her?

The answer is a simple matter of human endurance. No one can work around the clock indefinitely. If people try, there will come a point when they’ll become in effective, or, worse, a detriment to the investigation. They reach a point where exhaustion and emotions cloud the decision-making process, reaction time, and good old-fashioned common sense. I’m loathe to admit it, but I’ve been there. I’m not the least bit proud of the way I handled some aspects of cases past. The only positive gleaned is that I learned my limits.

It’s nearly 1:00 A.M. when I unlock the door of my house and step inside. The aromas of stale air and the overripe bananas I left on the kitchen counter greet me.

Flipping on the light, I carry my overnight bag to the bedroom and drop it on the floor outside my closet. Physical exhaustion presses into me as I peel off my clothes and toss them into the hamper. But while my body is crying for sleep, my mind is wound tight, and I know sleep will not come easily.