A gravel walkway takes us to a covered porch scattered with tables for summertime dining. We enter through a thick wooden door capped with a set of twelve-point antlers. The interior is dim and smells like dozens of other bars where I’ve spent too much time—a combination of cooking grease, liquor, and cigarette smoke. An old Allman Brothers song about one more silver dollar crackles from a single overhead speaker. The bar is to our right, an ancient slab of wood that’s seen more than its share of calloused elbows, slurred speech, and spilled beer. A hunched old man in a cowboy hat sits with his leg crossed over his knee, smoking a pipe. The rest rooms are in the back. A sign says SIT THE HELL DOWN. We choose a table at the rear.

Tomasetti pulls out my chair for me. I want to believe he’s doing it because he’s a gentleman. But I know he will never sit down in any public place with his back to the door. Some people might call that paranoid. Not me. Maybe because I know if some crazy shit walks in with a gun, Tomasetti will be ready.

A skinny waitress with blue-gray hair and bony legs rushes to our table and slaps down menus. “Hi, folks. You here for dinner or drinks?”

“Both,” Tomasetti says. “And not necessarily in that order.”

She chuckles. “That’s what I like to hear. What can I get for ya?”

We order two bottles of Killian’s Irish Red and burgers with fries, and the waitress hustles away.

“What bothers me about Stoltzfus,” Tomasetti begins, “is that he’s put himself in the position of having access to disgruntled Amish teenagers.”

Something scratches at the back of my brain, but I can’t quite reach it. “Child predators operate much the same way.”

“And he’s had contact with at least one of the missing.”

The waitress returns to the table with our beers and two frosty mugs. “Be right back with those burgers.”

Tomasetti pours. We pick up the glasses and, watching each other over the rims, drink deeply. It’s the first alcohol I’ve had since the Slabaugh case six months ago, and I don’t want to acknowledge how good it goes down.

I’m still thinking about Stoltzfus when my cell vibrates against my hip. I glance down at the display, expecting another frantic call from Auggie. I’m surprised to see a name I don’t recognize on the display.

I answer, saying, “Burkholder.”

“This is Suzy Fisher.”

Surprise ripples through me at the sound of her voice. Not only is it unusual for an Amish person to use the telephone but it’s also late—well past bedtime for an Amish woman. “Hello, Mrs. Fisher. Is everything all right?”