I follow her to the dispatch station. She slides behind her computer and deftly runs her fingers over the keyboard. An instant later, a photo of an Amish woman appears on the screen. I guess her to be about twenty-five to thirty years old. Plain gray dress. Dark bonnet. Swartzentruber, I think.

“I found it on a blog site,” she tells me. “A blogger posted it eight years ago on a site called A Lid for Every Pot.”

“That’s an old Amish saying,” I murmur.

“I was just messing around and did a search for Nanty Glo, Pennsylvania, and the blog came up. I started reading, and the blogger, a lady by the name of Gwen Malcolm, had driven across Pennsylvania while on vacation and ran across this Amish woman on the roadside selling handwoven baskets. She bought a basket and started talking to the woman and somehow ended up taking the photo, which she used in her blog.”

“That’s surprising,” I say. “That dress and bonnet are Swartzentruber.”

“According to the blogger, the Amish woman’s name is Ruth Weaver.”

I lean closer to the monitor. “Can you enlarge it?”

“Yeah, but we lose resolution.” She taps a menu tab, and a larger but grainier photo augments.

I stare at the woman’s face, and a vague sense of familiarity grips me. I know it’s impossible; I’ve never met Ruth Weaver. Still, staring at the photo is like having a word on the tip of your tongue that you can’t quite conjure. “Mona, I think I’ve seen her before.”

“Here in Painters Mill? Or when you drove over to Pennsylvania?”

“I’m not sure. But her face … there’s something familiar about her.”

“Like passing-on-the-street familiar or you’ve-talked-to-her familiar?”

“I don’t know.” I shift my attention to Mona. “See if you can get in touch with the blogger and get your hands on a better photo. Or if she has others, ask her to send them.”

“I’ll do it right now.”

“E-mail it to me.”

“Will do.”

Half an hour later, I’m in my office on my second cup of coffee, staring at the grainy photo on my twenty-one-inch monitor. I hit the Print key and the printer spits out a not-so-great black-and-white reproduction. Grabbing it out of the tray, I leave my office, and head to the jail cell located in the basement.

Skid is sitting in the chair with his feet on the desk, playing with his iPad. “Oh. Hey.” His fleet slide from the desk. “Didn’t realize you were here.”

I glance at the cell, where Blue Branson lies on his cot, watching me. “Get up,” I tell him, crossing to the cell door.