The woman points. “Blue and white one in the middle there. Not sure how the window got broke. Damn teenagers, probably.”

“Do you mind if I take a look inside?”

“Knock your socks off. It ain’t locked, and I sure don’t think she left any valuables behind. Just close the door when you’re done. Don’t need no raccoons tearing things up.”

“Thank you.” I turn away and start down the stairs, but think of one more question. “What last name did Ruth go by?” I ask.

“Weaver. Ruth Weaver.”

*   *   *

The interior of the trailer reeks of rotting food and backed-up sewage with the underlying redolence of moldy carpet. I’m standing just inside the door in a small living room. The kitchen is to my right. To my left is a hall that presumably leads to the bedrooms and bathroom. Leaving the door open for ventilation, I walk into the kitchen. The window is broken. The curtains are rain-wilted and discolored. On the floor, a single mushroom sprouts from threadbare carpet. To my left, a 1970s yellow refrigerator has been tipped onto its face. From where I’m standing, I see what had once been a package of cold cuts and a half gallon of ice cream dried to a sticky goo on the floor. The counters are covered with rat droppings and several mismatched plastic containers. A filthy dish strainer sits in the sink.

Slipping on my gloves, I start with the drawers, quickly going through each one. I find take-out menus. Plastic utensils. What had once been a loaf of bread, but is now an unrecognizable blue-green blob inside the wrapper. In the final drawer, I find an old phone book. Tucked inside, I discover an article from the Painters Mill Weekly Advocate newspaper about the murder of Willis Hochstetler, the disappearance of his wife, Wanetta, and the deaths of their four children. Because they were Amish, there are no photos of the family, just the burned-out shell of the house and a chilling headline: MURDER IN AMISH COUNTRY. It’s another connection, so I fold the article and put it in my pocket.

I’m not sure what I hope to find. At this point, any information would be helpful. Social security numbers. Aliases used. The addresses of employers or friends. Utility bills. A phone bill. But after a quick search of the two bedrooms, I realize neither woman left anything behind. All I have is the newspaper article and the name of a woman who seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.

*   *   *

When a case breaks, the last place you want to be is on the road, two hundred miles away from home base. Unfortunately, that’s the position I find myself in as I hightail it toward Painters Mill. Once I hit the highway, I call Glock.