The room falls silent. The only sounds are the hiss of the lantern and the rain dripping from the eaves. The air is hot and stuffy, but neither the bishop nor his wife seems to notice.

“Mein Gott,” Mrs. Hertzler whispers. “God be with that poor child. God be with her family.”

“We need to speak with the family as soon as possible, Bishop Hertzler,” I tell him. “I don’t want them to hear the news from someone else. Will you come with us?”

The old man reaches for the cane leaning against the back of his chair, grips it with a gnarled hand, and pushes unsteadily to his feet. “Bring me my Bible.”

The drive to the King farm is silent and tense. By the time we pull into the gravel lane, it’s nearly 7:00 A.M. The sun sits on the eastern horizon like a steaming orange ball, burning away the final vestiges of the night’s storm.

Despite the early hour, the King farm is abuzz with activity. Two children—little girls clad in matching blue dresses—are on their way to the barn when we park next to a flatbed wagon loaded with a single milk can. They stare at us as Tomasetti and I help the bishop from the Tahoe, but they don’t stop to chat. More than likely, they’ve got cows or goats to milk before school.

A big black dog with white paws bounds over to us, tongue lolling. Tomasetti bends, stepping between the animal and the bishop to keep the dog from knocking the old man off balance.

We’re midway up the sidewalk when the screen door squeaks open and Levi King steps onto the porch. He looks gaunt and exhausted. His eyes settle on Bishop Hertzler, and I see a recoil go through his body.

“Has something happened?” he asks, starting toward us. “Is it Annie? Did you find her?”

“Mr. King—” I begin, but he cuts me off.

“Bishop?” Desperation rings in King’s voice. He stops a few feet away and stares at the old man, as if Tomasetti and I aren’t there. “Tell me. Why are you here?”

“We found a girl’s body,” I interject. “There was no ID. We need for you to come with us and tell us if it’s Annie.”

King looks at me as if I just rammed a knife into his abdomen and gutted him. His mouth opens. His lips quiver. “It isn’t Annie. It can’t be.”

In my peripheral vision, I see Tomasetti glance toward the Tahoe, and I wonder if he’s reliving the moment when someone told him about the deaths of his own daughters, the death of his wife.

The bishop maintains his grip on the younger man’s arm. “Be faithful, Levi, and leave the results to God.”