Suzy’s eyes skid right and she picks up her pencil. “She does not have time for a beau. She stays busy with teaching the children.”

It is then that I realize Eli Fisher is either a better liar than his wife or is oblivious to the fact that his daughter was involved with someone. “What about arguments? Did either of you have words with her?”

Eli shakes his head. “Nothing like that.”

I don’t take my eyes off of Suzy. Beside me, Tomasetti hangs back, gives me the floor. “Is that true, Mrs. Fisher?” I ask gently.

“Of course.” But the Amish woman’s breaths quicken. Her grip on the pencil tightens so much, her knuckles turn white.

Eli runs his hand lightly over her shoulder before letting it fall to his side. “Why are you asking these things?” he asks.

“Because I want to find your daughter.”

“We have told the police everything.” He glares at me. “Why do you come here now and ask the same things all over again?”

“I want to make sure no one left something out that could be important.” I hold his gaze. “Something that might help us find Bonnie.”

I feel Tomasetti’s attention burning into me, but I don’t look away from Eli.

“You think we have done something wrong?” the Amish man asks. “You think we are guilty of something?”

“I think you’re trying to protect your daughter.”

He opens his mouth, but no words come.

“You don’t have to protect her from us,” I tell him. “Please. I need the truth. All of it.”

Suzy raises her eyes to mine. I see a resolve within the depths of her gaze, something I hadn’t seen before, and I know my suspicions are correct. She wants to come clean about something, but she doesn’t want to speak in front of the men.

“Mr. Fisher,” I begin, “I was wondering if I could buy one of those bread boxes from you?”

“We don’t sell to the pub—”

He stops abruptly when Suzy reaches up and squeezes his hand. “Sell her the bread box,” the woman says.

I glance at Tomasetti. With a nod, he moves toward the door. “I know which one you want,” he says over his shoulder as he leaves the room.

Eli takes a final look at his wife. With a shake of his head, he follows.

When we’re alone, I address Suzy in Pennsylvania Dutch. “He’s a good husband, isn’t he?”

“Ja.” She nods adamantly, but her eyes are sad. “A good father, too.”

I wait.

“But he is a man and there are certain things he cannot understand.”

I don’t agree; men are as capable of understanding as women, but I let it go. I watch her struggle with the words; then she raises her gaze to mine. “Bonnie had a beau,” she says.

“What was his name?”

“I don’t know.”