Irene Mast stands at the counter, running water into an old-fashioned percolator. She’s a substantial woman, barely over five feet tall, with thinning silver hair and a bald spot at her crown. She wears a light blue dress with a white apron and low-heeled, practical shoes. The ties of her kapp dangle down her back. She hasn’t said a word since we were introduced a few minutes ago, but she immediately set about making coffee and bringing out a tin of peanut-butter cookies.

“I understand you’re a deacon, Mr. Mast,” I say.

The man looks down at the plate in front of him, gives a single, solemn nod.

“It is a heavy burden,” Irene tells me.

“We’d like to talk to you about your son, Noah,” Tomasetti begins.

The woman’s back stiffens at the mention of her son, but when she turns to us, her expression is serene. “It’s been nine years now.” She doesn’t look at us as she pours coffee into cups.

That’s when I notice the fourth place setting: a plate and silverware, a cup for coffee, a plastic tumbler for milk.

“Nine years is a long time,” I say.

Irene sets a plate with two cookies on it in front of me. “At first, we hoped, you know. We prayed a lot. But after so much time . . . we’ve come to believe he is with God.”

“Do you believe he left of his own accord?” I ask. “Or do you think something bad happened to him?”

The Amish man looks down at the plate in front of him. He’s got blood spatter on his shirt, a red smear on the back of his neck. He didn’t wash his hands when he came in.

“Noah got into some trouble,” Perry says. “The way young men do sometimes.”

“What kind of trouble?” I ask.

“The drinking, you know. The listening to music. And he liked . . . the girls.”

“He confessed his sins before the bishop,” Irene adds.

In the eyes of the Amish, confessing your sins is the equivalent of a “Get out of jail free” card. No matter how heinous the offense, if you confess, you are forgiven.

“The English police say Noah wanted to leave the plain life,” Perry says after a moment. “I don’t know who told them that. We don’t believe it. We never did.”

“Noah loved being Amish.” Emotion flashes in Irene’s eyes. “He was a humble boy with a kind and generous heart.”

“What do you think happened to him?” Tomasetti asks.

Perry shakes his head. “We don’t know. The things the Englischers say . . .” His voice trails off, as if he’s long since tired of saying the words.

I skimmed the file that had been amassed on Noah before leaving the sheriff’s office. A missing-person report was filed. People were interviewed, searches conducted. The cops—and most of the Amish, too—believed the boy ran away.