“Not just the Amish,” I remind him. “Young Amish who have considered leaving that way of life.”

He nods. “Who would be off ended by that? I mean, off ended so profoundly that he’d go to extreme measures?”

“Someone who is devout.” I toss out the first thing that comes to mind, playing off his question, brainstorming. “Someone who disapproves of the way these young people are living their lives. Someone who believes they should be punished.” I look at Tomasetti. “Frank Gilfillan and the Twelve Passages Church.”

“Is he trying to punish them? Recruit them? Or redeem them?”

“Maybe all three.”

“So the fact that these Amish teens are confused about their religious beliefs makes them vulnerable. That’s a benefit to Gilfillan. That’s how he finds them.”

“Maybe Annie King refused to be recruited,” I venture.

“That could fit,” Tomasetti says.

“I’m starting to like Gilfillan for this.” I find myself wanting to return to Buck Creek with him in the morning, so I can be there when they execute the warrant. But I can’t leave with Sadie missing. Not when the last missing girl turned up dead.

An image of Sadie flashes in my mind’s eye. I see her as she was that day on the bridge in her skimpy tank top, with her long brown arms and reckless, engaging smile. Sadie with a can of beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Sadie rolling around on the ground and throwing punches with the abandon of a born street fighter.

“Tomasetti, I don’t want to lose this girl,” I say quietly.

“I know.”

“Sadie is . . .” I don’t know how to finish the sentence. I almost said “special,” but I know in my heart she’s no more special than the others. All of them are someone’s daughter or son or brother or sister. All of them are loved.

“We’ll get him,” he says.

“She’s hard to handle. She won’t acquiesce.” I stare at the whiteboard, but I no longer see the words. “She might not have much time.”

“Kate, we’re doing everything we can.”

That’s one of the things I admire about Tomasetti; he’ll never prop me up with false hope. He’ll never make promises he can’t keep, no matter how desperately I need to hear them.

He crosses to me. “I know what you’re thinking.”

I smile, but it feels crooked on my face. “That I wish I wasn’t on the wagon?”

He’s standing so close, I can smell the remnants of his aftershave, feel the heat radiating from his body against mine. I see the five o’clock shadow on his jaw, the capillaries in eyes that are red from lack of sleep and too many hours on the road.

He frowns, but not in a serious way. “You’re beating yourself up because you’re not out there looking for her.”