“Was he Amish or English?”

“I do not know.”

“How do you know she had a beau?”

She looks down at the invoice to her left, transfers a number onto the columnar pad. “Because she was with child.”

I’ve been around the block a few too many times for this news to shock me. Teenagers having babies is nothing new—even within the Amish community. The thing that does surprise me is that this information hadn’t come out before now.

“How far along was she?” I ask.

“I don’t know. She wasn’t showing yet.”

“She confided in you?”

Her gaze skates away from mine, and I realize she’s more hurt by the fact that her daughter didn’t confide in her than she is by the out-of-wedlock pregnancy. “I found the . . . plastic thing,” she tells me. “You know, from the drugstore.”

“A pregnancy kit?”

“Ja. In the trash. She’d tried to hide it, but . . .” A sigh shudders out of her. “That’s when I knew.”

“You asked her about it?”

“She denied it at first, but when I told her I’d found the test, she . . . confessed.”

“Do you know who the father is?”

My question elicits a blank stare, as if it hadn’t occurred to her to ask. But I know it had, and I realize with some surprise there’s something else going on that she considers even worse than the pregnancy.

“Who’s the father?” I ask again.

She transfers another number onto the columnar pad.

“Mrs. Fisher?” I say gently. “This could be important. Who is he?”

The woman looks down at the desktop, folds her hands in front of her. “Bonnie doesn’t know,” she whispers.

“She had more than one partner?”

The woman jerks her head. “I don’t understand her. I don’t understand why she does these things.”

“Do you know the names of the men she was with?”

Her face screws up, but she regains control before the tears come. “She would not say.”

“Do you know how many there were?”

She puts her face in her hands and shakes her head. “No.”

“Do you know where she met them?”

“She is . . . secretive about such things. She gets angry when I ask too many questions.”

I want to say something to comfort her. But I’m so far out of my element, I can’t find the words. The things I know as a cop would be no comfort, and so I hold my silence.

“We did not teach her to be that way. I don’t know how she knew. . . .”

I nod, give her a moment. “Is there anything else you can think of that might help us find these young men?”

She shakes her head, as if she’s too upset to speak. When she raises her gaze to mine, her eyes are haunted. “Do you think one of the boys might have taken Bonnie?”