Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

wondering if it’s Annie’s.”
    Edna stares at the bag for a moment, then takes it from him, her mouth quivering. “It is hers.” She studies it, turning it over in her hands and appearing to search every inch of the fabric, as if the satchel holds the answers we all so desperately need. She raises her gaze, her eyes darting from the sheriff to Tomasetti and then to me. “Where did you find this?”
    The sheriff answers. “Out on County Road 7.”
    I’m relieved when he doesn’t mention the blood. Until it’s identified as human—or confirmed as Annie’s—there’s no need to torture this family with information that may not be relevant.
    “We’ve been praying for her safe return.” Closing her eyes, Edna presses the bag to her chest. “Perhaps this is a sign she will be coming back to us.” Her face collapses, but she doesn’t make a sound. “We miss her,” she whispers. “And we’re worried. We want her back.”
    Levi sets his gaze on the sheriff. “Was there any other sign of her?”
    The sheriff shakes his head. “We’re going over the scene with a fine-tooth comb.”
    A sound to my right draws my attention. I look up and see a little Amish girl, half of her hidden behind the doorway, peeking at us with one eye. She’s wearing a blue dress that looks like a hand-me-down. Her bare feet are slender, tanned, and dirty.
    Levi raises his hand and points. “Ruthie, go help your sister in the garden.” His voice is firm but holds a distinctly sad note, which tells me the words have less to do with the garden than with his not wanting her to bear witness to this discussion.
    The girl eyes us a moment longer, then darts away, her bare feet slapping against the oak-plank floor.
    “How many children do you have, Mrs. King?” Tomasetti asks.
    “Eight,” Edna tells him. “God blessed us with four girls and four boys.”
    As inconspicuously as possible, I pull out my note pad. “How old are they?”
    “David is our youngest. He’s three.” She chokes out a laugh. “I think you met him when you came to the door. He’s shy with strangers, especially the Englischers, you know. Annie is the oldest.” Her voice falters, but she takes a moment, gathers herself. “She’s fifteen. . . . Lydia is thirteen. . . .” She lets her words trail off, as if there are too many children to name. “They’re worried about their sister.”
    “When did you realize Annie was missing?” I ask.
    The woman casts a glance at her husband, then looks down at her hands. They’re red and chapped, the nails bitten to the quick. “Yesterday afternoon. We sent her out for corn and tomatoes. She gets restless, you know. She’s at that age.”
    “What time was that?”
    “Before supper.” She glances absently at the antique mantel clock on a shelf by the door. “Two o’clock, I think.”
    “Was she on foot?”
    “Yes. She enjoys the walking.”
    “When did you become worried?”
    She looks at her husband, as if the answer is too much for her to bear, and he answers for her. “We began to worry when she didn’t make it home in time for the before-meal prayer,” he says.
    “That Annie likes to eat.” Edna’s laugh comes out sounding more like a sob.
    “What did you do?” Tomasetti asks.
    “I went looking for her, of course,” Levi responds.
    “Alone?”
    “My son and I took the buggy.” Levi sighs and shakes his head. “We took the route she would have taken, but there was no sign of her. We talked to Amos Yoder at the vegetable stand, and he said she had been there earlier and she seemed fine.”
    I look at Goddard. “Is the place where we found the satchel between here and the vegetable stand?”
    Goddard shakes his head. “No.”
    No one says it, but that means Annie either took a different route home or got into a vehicle with someone. “What did you do next?” I ask Levi.
    “I took the buggy to the bishop’s house. He has a phone. We put together a search party.” A sigh slides between his lips, as if he’s staving off an emotion he can’t afford to feel. “All of the able-bodied men and boys came out to help—some on horse back, some in buggies. Our English neighbors helped in their cars.”
    “Why did you wait so long before calling the police?” Goddard asks gently.
    “The Ordnung forbids our associating . . .” His words trail off. It’s as if he realizes a missing child is the one time when there’s no place for sectarian beliefs. “I thought we would find her