Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

reassuring. “Let us know if you find something that links this one to the others, Chief.”
    Tomasetti unplugs the power cord of my laptop and hands it to me. “Be careful.”
    I stop what I’m doing and look at him. More than anything at that moment, I want to feel his arms around me. I want to know he’s going to be there—not only in terms of the case but for me, too.
    I loop the strap of my laptop case over my shoulder. “I’ll call you when I know something.”
    And then I’m through the door and rushing toward the Tahoe.
    There are a thousand reasons why a cop should never work a case in which he or she has a personal connection. Ask any veteran and they will tell you that a cop who is personally motivated will fuck things up faster and more thoroughly than any rookie. When the stakes are high—when someone you care about is at risk—everything changes. I want to believe I can handle it, muscle my way through, conventional wisdom be damned. But already I can feel the gnarly beast of emotional involvement riding my back, goading me into territory in which I have no business venturing. I know going into this that I’m at a disadvantage. I’m vulnerable to making snap decisions and taking risks I might not normally take. It would be smarter to hand this case off to someone else. Only there is no one else.
    It takes me just under two hours to reach Painters Mill. I employed emergency lights and siren and hit ninety miles per hour once I reached the highway. Still, those two hours seemed more like days and a thousand terrible thoughts ran through my head the entire time. I don’t know for a fact that Sadie Miller has been kidnapped. As far as any of us know, she could have made good on her promise to leave the Amish way and taken off for greener pastures. But I know all too well how quickly a runaway situation can become a missing-person case.
    Or a homicide.
    It’s early evening by the time I pull into the gravel lane of the Miller farm. I park the Tahoe in the long shadow cast by the house, ever aware that the day is drawing to a close. I see Bishop Troyer’s buggy parked by the barn, the old Standardbred horse tethered to a tie post near the main door. Glock’s cruiser is a few yards away. A Crown Vic from the sheriff’s office sits at a haphazard angle behind Glock’s car. There’s another buggy I don’t recognize next to the bishop’s.
    I’ve known the Millers since I was a teenager. They’re a conservative Amish family, and there were many times growing up when they didn’t approve of the choices I made or the things I did. Back then, I thrived on that kind of controversy. I thumbed my nose at the rules, and I didn’t give a good damn that they looked at me as if I were something that needed to be mucked out of a stall with a pitchfork.
    As an adult, I know they’ll never approve of the decisions I made that put me on the path to where I am now. But this isn’t about me or a past that’s long gone. I hope their disdain for me doesn’t affect the level of cooperation my department receives with regard to Sadie.
    My legs are stiff from the drive, but I hit the ground running and head toward the back porch. I’m hoping Sadie has been found and I made the drive for nothing. I’m hoping for the chance to scold her and then throw my arms around her and tell her how glad I am to see her. But when the door swings open and Sarah and her sister-in-law rush out, my hopes are dashed. Both women wear light blue dresses with white aprons, white head coverings, dark-colored hose, and practical shoes. Their faces are blotchy from crying and their eyes are haunted.
    One look at my sister and the anger I felt toward her earlier evaporates.
    “Oh, Katie.” Her voice breaks on my name.
    I go to her and try not to feel awkward as I put my arms around her. She smells of clean clothes and summertime, the way my mamm used to smell, and for a split second I find myself longing for all the hugs I never received. I can feel my sister shaking within my embrace. “Any news?” I ask, easing her to arm’s length.
    She shakes her head. “No.”
    I turn my attention to Sadie’s mother. Esther Miller is a stout woman with a round, freckled face and a port-wine birthmark the size of a quarter on the left side of her nose. Her brown hair is streaked with silver and pulled into a severe bun at her nape. When we were teenagers, she was funny and opinionated and had a rebellious attitude that appealed greatly