Crossing to the window, I part the curtains and look out. The rain is coming down in earnest now. Water streams down the glass in a kaleidoscopic waterfall. The dormer window looks out over the tin roof of the front porch. Having been a mischievous teenager myself, I notice how easy it would be to sneak out the window. I check the lock, find it secure. When I shine my light on the sill, I’m shocked to see that the window is nailed shut. Had someone been coming to Mary’s window? Or were the nails a father’s effort to keep his daughter from venturing out? Whatever the case, the nails tell me the parents knew something was going on.

The generator has been removed from the scene, so I go back downstairs. I grab the battery-powered work light, lug it up the stairs to Mary’s room and set it up on the chest of drawers. Donning latex gloves, I begin my search with the night table. In the top drawer, I find two Bibles, an ancient tome titled Martyrs Mirror, which is a record of persecutions suffered by European Anabaptists during the Reformation era. In the second drawer I find a hairbrush and comb. A kapp in need of mending. I smile when I see the mirror. Young Amish girls are no different that other girls when it comes to adolescent vanity. In some of the more conservative Amish homes, mirrors are forbidden. I wonder if Mary’s parents knew about this one.

The night table nets nothing of interest so I move to the chest. I find boys’ trousers with tears and holes that need mending. Underclothes. A baseball and well-used glove in the bottom drawer.

“Where did you keep your secrets?” I say aloud.

It’s been a long time since I was a teenager. But I remember what it was like. The awkwardness. The longing for things I didn’t understand, most of which I knew I could never have. Like Mary, I had secrets, and those secrets caused me untold agony. It’s the loneliest feeling in the world to so desperately need the love and support of your family, and feel as if you don’t deserve it.

I go to the bed. It’s unmade, the covers turned down and rumpled. A faceless doll with blond curls lies facedown next to the pillow. I wonder if Mary tossed it aside when she was roused from bed by her killer. I pick up the doll and an overwhelming sadness engulfs me. Amish dolls are faceless because in the Bible, in Exodus and Deuteronomy, graven images are forbidden.