Levi tightens his lips as if against words he doesn’t want to utter. “We think the English boy was courting her.”

“Did Annie tell you that?”

The Amish man shakes his head. “Dan Beiler saw them together in town.”

“Do you know the boy’s name?”

“No.” He looks everywhere except into my eyes. “He has a car. She disappears sometimes and will not tell us where she’s been.”

“Do you know what kind of car?”

“We don’t know,” Levi spits out.

“She will not speak of him to us,” Edna says, choking out the words.

“We forbade her to speak to the Englischers,” Levi says. “She would not listen.”

“Our Annie thinks she knows her mind.” Edna’s voice cracks on the last word. “When she wants something, there is no stopping her.”

“But her faith is strong,” Levi adds. “She loves her family. She is kind and submits to God.”

I know that sometimes even the faithful find themselves face-to-face with the devil.

“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. King. You’ve been very helpful.” I shake hands with both of them. “We’re going to do our best to find your daughter.”

Tomasetti, Goddard, and I stand as a single unit. As we start toward the door, I mentally add Amy Stutz to my list of possible sources of information. But the person I most want to speak with is the boyfriend. Any cop worth his weight knows that when a female goes missing, the first suspect is always the man who claims to love her.

Ten minutes later, Goddard, Tomasetti, and I are standing on the front porch of the Stutz house. Goddard has knocked twice, but no one has answered the door. “We’re batting zero,” he says with a sigh.

Tomasetti peers through the window as if expecting to discover someone lurking behind the shades. “I thought the Amish spent their evenings at home,” he growls. “Early to bed and all that bullshit.”

Goddard looks to me, the resident Amish expert. “Any idea where they might be?”

“Visiting a neighbor, maybe.” I look around, taking in the long shadows of late afternoon.

“We could wait,” Goddard suggests. “See if they show.”

“We need the name of the boyfriend,” Tomasetti mutters.

I drift to the porch rail and look out across the pasture, where eight Jersey cows and two young horses graze the lush grass. A thin layer of fog hovers in the low-lying areas. Twilight birds and crickets mingle with a cacophony of bullfrogs from the pond, where a profusion of cattails flourish. How many times growing up did I lie in my bed at night with the window open and listen to these very same sounds? How many times did I wonder what the world was like beyond the confines of the farm? I feel the memories pushing at the gate. But I don’t open it.

Goddard clears his throat. “Let’s grab a bite to eat and come back.”