Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

clove cigarettes.
    “Put the smokes out,” I tell them as I approach.
    Two heads jerk my way. The girl with the brow hoop turns to me, tamps out her cigarette on the sill, and then drops it to the floor. The one who was fighting flicks hers out the window to the creek below, then faces me. For the first time, I get a good look at her face. Recognition stops me cold. I know her. Or at least I used to, and I’m pretty sure she’s Amish. For an instant, I’m so shocked that I can’t remember her name.
    “Hey, Katie,” she says sweetly.
    I stare hard at her, racking my memory, unsettled because I’m coming up short. She’s about fifteen, with gangly arms and legs and a skinny butt squeezed into jeans at least two sizes too small. She’s got pretty skin, large hazel eyes, and shoulder-length brown hair streaked blond by the sun. She took at least one punch to the face, because I see a bruise blooming below her left eye.
    She smirks, a shifty amusement touching her expression. “You don’t remember me.”
    My brain lands on a name, but I’m not certain it’s correct. “Sadie Miller?”
    She dazzles me with a smile that’s far too pretty for someone who was on the ground and throwing punches just a few minutes ago. She’s the niece of my sister’s husband, and I almost can’t believe my eyes. The last time I saw Sadie was at my mother’s funeral, just over three years ago. She’d been about twelve years old, a cute little tomboy in a blue dress and white kapp; all skinny legs, scabby knees, and a gap between her front teeth. I remember her so well because she was sweet and social, with a natural curiosity that had appealed to me even through my grief. She was one of the few Amish girls who could hold her own with the boys and had no qualms about speaking her mind to the adults. I ended up spending most of my time with her that day, mainly because most of the other Amish refused to talk to me.
    This young woman looks nothing like that cute little Amish girl. She’s tall and beautiful, with a model-thin body. There’s a wildness in her eyes that adds something edgy and audacious to an already-bold appearance—at least in Amish terms anyway—and I know her early defiance of the rules has turned into something a hell of a lot more chronic.
    “Do you need an ambulance?” I ask.
    She laughs. “I think I’ll live.”
    I make a point of looking her up and down. Her nails are painted blue. Her makeup is well done but heavy on the liner. She wears a silky black tank with bold white stitching. The material is so thin, I can see her nipples through the fabric. I hear myself sigh. “Do your parents know you’re here?”
    “It’s none of their business.” She flicks her hair off her shoulder. “I’m on rumspringa. ”
    Rumspringa is the time when young Amish people are allowed to experience life without the constraints of the Ordnung, while the adults look the other way. Most teens partake in some drinking and listening to music—small infractions that are generally harmless. I wonder if this girl will be one of the 80 percent who eventually become baptized.
    I stare at her, trying to reconcile the young woman before me with the sweet kid I met three years ago. “You’re kind of young for rumspringa, aren’t you?”
    “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a kid anymore.”
    “You didn’t look very grown-up a few minutes ago when you were fighting.”
    “I’m fifteen.” She looks away. “Old enough to know what I want.”
    “Half of the adult population doesn’t know what they want,” I mutter drily.
    She laughs outright. “That’s what I like about you, Katie.”
    “You don’t know me.”
    “I know you break the rules.”
    “Yeah, well, all that rule breaking isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be.”
    “That must be why you left,” she says, her words saturated with sarcasm.
    “Don’t go there,” I warn her.
    “I’m thinking about leaving the plain life,” she blurts.
    Since I’m the last person who should be having this conversation with a young Amish woman, I take a moment to dig my note pad from my pocket. “How do your parents feel about that?”
    “They think the devil has gotten ahold of me.” She throws her head back and laughs. “They could be right.”
    Trying not to wince, I turn my attention to her friend, the girl with the gold hoop sticking out of her eyebrow. “What’s your name?”
    “Lori Westfall.”
    I scribble the name on the pad. “You