“She’s a good girl,” Edna says quickly.

An alarm sounds in the back of my brain. Maybe it’s because I know that when parents feel the need to emphasize the goodness of their children, there’s usually a reason. Like maybe the kid isn’t quite as well-behaved as they’d like everyone to believe, and as they desperately want to believe themselves.

After a moment, Edna lowers her face into shaking hands. “She is a good girl.”

The last thing I want to do is alienate them; at the moment, they are our best source of information. But I know if I don’t push, I won’t get what I need, and that is the truth—all of it.

I let the silence ride, giving them some time; then I return my attention to Edna. “Have you spoken to Annie’s friends?”

Edna raises her head. “She keeps to herself mostly.”

“Does she have a best friend?” I press her, knowing that whether you’re Amish or English, if you’re a teenage girl, you have a confidante.

Edna perks up. “She’s been friendly with the Stutz girl. They went to a singing last week after worship. Amy is her name.”

I write down the name and turn my attention to the sheriff. “Do you know where the Stutz family lives?”

He nods. “Just down the road.”

I go back to Edna. “Is there anything else you can think of that might help us find her?”

When the woman looks away, I turn my attention to Levi. The Amish man stares down at the tabletop. He knows something, too; I see it in the slump of his shoulders, the cord of tension in his neck. I’m sure Tomasetti and Goddard sense it as well, and the only thing we can do at this point is wait them out and hope they open up.

For a full minute, the only sounds come from the hiss of the lantern’s wick and the ticking of the mantel clock on the shelf. Then Levi raises his gaze to mine. “She has been associating with some Englischers.”

Edna jerks her head his way. “Levi . . .”

“What are their names?” I ask quickly.

“We do not know.”

“Does she have a boyfriend?”

The Amish couple exchange a look I recognize. A look I’ve seen before. One I understand all too well. One I saw in the eyes of my own parents. Shame. The need to secrete away the sins of their child. I know this because I was once that sinful child. This is the question they’ve been avoiding. The answer is one they don’t want to divulge. A reality they don’t want to acknowledge. Not even between them. Certainly not to us outsiders. But I also know it’s the reason we’ve been invited into this Amish home.