I study the scene, trying to envision what might have happened. The bag lies on the gravel shoulder, about four feet from the bloodstain. A couple of ears of sweet corn still wrapped in their husks have spilled out of it, looking out of place on the asphalt. I cross to the bag for a closer look. It’s a satchel made of quilted fabric—an Amish print—and looks homemade. My mamm had a similar one when I was a kid; she used it when she went to the grocery store or into town for supplies.

Pulling a pen from my jacket pocket, I squat next to the bag and use the pen to open it and peer inside. I see green peppers, another ear of sweet corn, and tomatoes that have gone soft in the heat. Straightening, I cross to the sheriff. “Is there a vegetable stand nearby?”

He blinks at me, as if realizing he should have already explored that angle. “The Yoders run a stand a couple miles down the road.”

“You talk to the folks at the stand?”

“Not yet,” he says sheepishly. “There ain’t no phone out there.”

The statement sounds like an excuse, and he knows it. The last thing I want to do is ruffle local feathers. By all indications, he’s competent and capable. Still, I’m surprised that hadn’t occurred to him.

Looking chagrined, he pulls his phone from his belt. “I’ll get one of my deputies out there.”

I walk the scene, memorizing as much of it as I can. The location of the pool of blood, the proximity of the satchel in relation to the blood, the angle of the tire tread.

When he ends the call, I ask, “Did you photograph the scene?”

“Not yet.”

“Have you checked registered sex offenders in the area?”

“My secretary is pulling it now.”

We study the scene for a minute or so and then I ask, “What can you tell me about the family?”

“Girl’s parents are Edna and Levi King. They’re Old Order. Nice folks, though. I think they got about eight kids now, with Annie being the oldest. Anyway, they came into my office about eight this morning and told me she didn’t come home last night.

“Evidently, they spent the night looking for her. Got the neighbors involved. Finally, they got so worried, they decided to involve the police.” He swats a fly off his forehead. “I wish they’d come to me right away, so we could have gotten a jump on this.”

“You have a description of the girl?”

“They didn’t have a photo.” He pulls a note pad from his back pocket, flips it open. “Fifteen years old. Brown hair. Brown eyes. A hundred and fifteen pounds. Five feet five inches.” He grimaces. “I seen her a time or two. Pretty little thing.”