“Sounds like a plan,” Tomasetti says.

And then we’re back in the Tahoe, following Goddard down the lane through plumes of billowing white dust.

I’m still thinking about the boyfriend. “If Annie and her boyfriend are tight and he knows she’s missing, why hasn’t he come forward?”

“Maybe he’s guilty of something.”

“Or they could be together.”

“Considering the blood at the scene, that would be a best-case scenario.”

We’re nearly to the end of the lane when, in my peripheral vision, I notice a flash of blue through the dust. I glance over and see an Amish girl in a blue dress standing on the shoulder. Brown paper bag in hand, she’s braving a thick bramble of raspberries. She’s picking the berries, I realize.

“Stop,” I say abruptly.

Tomasetti hits the brakes hard enough to throw me against my shoulder harness. The tires grab and the Tahoe slides to an abrupt stop. He puts the SUV in park and tosses me a speculative look. “Amy Stutz?”

“Age looks about right.”

A few yards ahead, Goddard’s brake lights come on and he pulls over.

I open the door and start toward the girl. Her eyes widen when she realizes I’m coming toward her. “Hi there,” I begin in my most friendly voice. “Wei bischt du heit?” How are you today?”

“Ich bin zimmlich gut.” I’m pretty good, but she’s looking at me as if I’m an ax murderer, and I can tell she’s thinking about making a run for the house.

“My name’s Kate. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m a police officer.”

“Oh. Hello.” It’s a duty greeting. She doesn’t want to talk to me, but she’s too polite not to respond when she’s been addressed by an adult, even if they’re English. I guess her to be about fifteen years old. She’s wearing a plain blue dress with a gauzy white kapp that’s been left untied at her nape, and on her feet are a cheap pair of sneakers.

“I’m looking for Mr. and Mrs. Stutz,” I begin.

“They’re visiting the Beiler family down the road. To see the new baby.”

“What’s your name?”

“Amy.”

I make a show of looking at the raspberry bushes. “How are the berries?”

“Juicy.” She peers into the bag. “Not too many bugs.” She eyes the Tahoe. “They’re not for sale. Mamm makes jam.”

She’s a pretty girl with hazel eyes and a sunburned nose. Her hands are dirty from picking berries and she’s got a purple stain next to her mouth.

“Do you know Annie King?” I ask.

“Ja.”