She nods. “I was standing by the bridge when I noticed an old car parked alongside the road. The man was walking around, calling for his dog. He told me the dog’s name was Benji and that he’d jumped out the window and run away. He asked me to help him find it.” A breath shudders out of her. “So we walked the ditch for a few minutes, calling for him. When my back was turned, he rushed me and stabbed me with something sharp.” Using her right hand, she reaches around and rubs her left shoulder. “At first, I thought it was a knife. I thought he was going to kill me, so I ran. But I got woozy—I mean, like I’d been drinking or something—and I could barely walk. The next thing I knew, he got back in the car and he rammed me with it.” She indicates her right hip. “Bumper hit me here, and I went flying.”

She takes a deep breath, as if to garner the full force of her determination, and keeps going. “He dragged me to the car. I tried to fight, but by then I could barely move.” She shrugs. I guess I passed out after that. When I woke up, I was in the tunnel.”

Her breathing is elevated. Beads of sweat coat her upper lip. She’s no longer paying attention to the calf, but lost in a nightmare I suspect she’ll be dealing with for quite some time.

Everything she has said corresponds with Bonnie Fisher’s statement and the evidence found at the scene.

“Thank you,” I tell her. “I know that wasn’t easy.” I look down at my notes. “I’ll add this to my final report and then all of us can put it behind us for good.” I smile at her. “You can concentrate on your upcoming baptism.”

She chokes out a laugh. “I still have two weeks to misbehave.”

I open my arms. Setting down the pail, she steps into my embrace. I squeeze her tight. “You’d better get back to your calf.”

I’m closing the stall door behind me when I think of one final question. “Was Irene Mast with him?” I ask.

Sadie looks up from the calf. “His mamm?”

“His wife.” Even as I say the words, something cold and sharp scrapes up my back.

I pause outside the stall, my heart pounding. “Sadie, how old was the man who accosted you?”

She’s already turned her attention back to the calf. “Older than me,” she says matter-of-factly. “At least twenty-five years old.”

For a moment, I’m so shocked that I can’t speak. I think of the way Noah Mast looked lying in the hospital bed, as pathetic as a dog that’s been neglected and brutalized by a heartless owner.