All children are innocent, but Amish children possess a particular kind of innocence. They believe the world is a good place, that their parents never make mistakes, that everyone they meet is their friend, and that if you pray hard enough, God will answer your prayers. It’s particularly shattering for an Amish child when she realizes none of those things are true.

Tomasetti and I watch the girls for a moment, each of us caught in our thoughts. That’s when it strikes me that these girls are about the same age his own would have been had their lives not been cut short by a career criminal who thought he’d make an example of a cop who crossed him. That was three years ago, and I know Tomasetti is still clawing his way out of that bottomless pit of despair. Most days, I think, he succeeds. But sometimes when I look into his eyes, I see the dark place in which he resides.

He cuts me a sideways look. “I think the dog is going to win.”

“My money’s on the girls.” I smile at him.

“Are you telling me I shouldn’t underestimate the determination of an Amish girl?”

“Especially when she’s got her sister to help her. Dog doesn’t stand a chance. One way or another, he’s going to get that bath.”

He parks adjacent to a rail fence next to the sheriff’s cruiser and kills the engine. Neither of us speaks as we take the sidewalk to the porch and wait for Sheriff Goddard.

“Damn, it’s humid.” Before he can knock, the door swings open. I find myself looking down at a little boy whose head comes up to about waist level. He’s blond-haired and blue-eyed, with blunt-cut bangs that are crooked from a recent trim. His small nose is covered with a smattering of freckles.

“Hello there, little guy,” Sheriff Goddard says. “Is your mom or dad home?”

The little boy squeals and runs back into the house.

“You’ve got a way with kids,” Tomasetti says.

The sheriff glances sideways at us. “Same situation with women.” He looks at me. “No offense.”

I withhold a smile. “None taken.”

He’s barely gotten the words out when an Amish man enters the mudroom and crosses to the door. He’s tall—well over six feet—with muscled shoulders and the beginnings of a paunch, divulging the fact that, despite his fitness, he’s a well-fed man. He’s blond and has a brown beard that reaches halfway down his belly, telling me he’s married. I guess him to be in his mid-forties. Dressed in black trousers, suspenders, and a vest over a white shirt, he is an imposing figure.

His eyes are the color of onyx beneath heavy brows, and they take in our presence with no emotion. “Can I help you?” he asks, but he makes no move to invite us inside.