“Afternoon, Mr. King,” Sheriff Goddard begins. “We’d like to talk to you about your daughter.”

The Amish man’s expression remains impassive as his eyes move from Goddard to Tomasetti and me.

Goddard introduces us, letting him know which agency we represent. “They’re here to help us find Annie, Mr. King. We were wondering if you and your wife could answer a few questions.”

King’s eyes narrow on me. I’m not sure if he recognized my last name as a common Amish one or if he’s merely curious because I’m from Holmes County. He doesn’t ask, turning his attention to Goddard. “Do you have news of her?” he asks.

“We think we found her bag,” the sheriff tells him.

A quiver runs through King, as if hope and terror are waging war inside him. “Where?”

“A couple of miles from the vegetable stand,” Goddard says. “Have you had any luck on your end?”

The man’s shoulders fall forward and he shakes his head. “No,” he says, and opens the door.

We enter a mudroom with a scuffed plank floor and two bare windows, which usher in plenty of light. I see six straw hats hanging neatly on wooden dowels set into the wall. Muddy work boots are lined up on a homemade rug. An ancient wringer washing machine that smells of soap and mildew has been shoved into a corner. A basket filled with clothespins sits on the floor next to the machine.

King leads us through a doorway and into a large, well-used kitchen. The aromas of bread, seared meat, and kerosene greet me, and the same sense of déjà vu from earlier grips me. Light filters in from a single window over the sink, but it’s not enough to cut the shadows. Dual lanterns glow yellow from atop a rectangular table covered with a blue-and-white-checkered cloth. Scraped-clean plates and a smattering of flatware and a few drinking glasses litter the table’s surface, and I realize that though it’s not yet four o’clock, this family has just finished dinner. That’s when I notice the one place setting that hasn’t been touched. Annie’s, I realize. It’s a symbol of their hope that she will return, of their faith that God will bring her back to them and their prayers will be answered. It’s been a long time since I put that kind of faith in anything. It makes me sad to think that this family might soon realize that some prayers go unanswered.

An Amish girl barely into her teens gathers dishes from the table and carries them to the sink, where an Amish woman wearing a dark blue dress, white apron, and a gauzy white kapp has her hands immersed in soapy water, her head bowed. She’s so embroiled in the task, or perhaps her thoughts, she doesn’t notice us until her husband speaks.