Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

can go.”
    Her eyes slide to Sadie. “But . . . I’m her ride home.”
    “Not anymore.” I point to the mouth of the bridge. “Go.”
    Huffing a grievous sigh, she turns and walks away.
    “I guess all those stories I’ve heard about you are true,” Sadie says.
    “I’m not going to respond to that, Sadie, so save your breath.”
    She ignores me. “Everyone says you’re a badass.”
    “Don’t believe everything you hear.”
    “I’m glad you cuffed that bitch.”
    “If I were you, I’d start taking this a lot more seriously.”
    She sobers, but I still discern the smile in her eyes.
    “Who started the fight?” I ask.
    Looking far too comfortable with the situation, she shrugs. “I threw the first punch.”
    “Why were you fighting?” I ask, hoping none of this is about drugs.
    “Her boyfriend likes me more than he likes her, and she’s the jealous type.”
    “Who touched whom first?”
    “She shoved me.” She glances down, peels at the nail polish on her thumb. “So I slugged her.”
    “Did she hit you back?”
    She points to her eye. “Hello.”
    I frown. “Don’t get smart with me, Sadie. Just because you’re family doesn’t mean I won’t take you to jail. Do you understand?”
    “I got it.” But she gives me a sly grin. “Angi McClanahan is a fuckin’ ho.”
    The words are so incongruous with the girl standing before me that I’m taken aback. “Give it a rest,” I snap. But I’m acutely aware of the discomfort in my voice. “You’re too pretty to talk like that.”
    “Everyone else does.” She looks at me from under long lashes, curious, testing me. “Even you.”
    “This isn’t about me.”
    “The old women still gossip about you, Katie. They talk about how you used to be Amish but left the plain life for the big, bad city.” She looks at me as if somehow what I did is something to be admired. “Fannie Raber said you told the bishop to go to hell.”
    “I don’t see how that’s something to be proud of.”
    She shrugs. “I’m tired of all the rules.”
    The urge to defend the Amish way rises in my chest with surprising force. But knowing any such defense would be hypocritical coming from me, I hold my silence. “Maybe you should discuss this with your parents.”
    “Like they’re going to understand.”
    “Then the bishop—”
    She barks out a laugh. “Bishop Troyer is so lame!”
    “Fighting is lame. Look at you. How could you disrespect yourself like this? You’re going to have a black eye.”
    Looking only slightly chagrined, she lowers her voice. “I’m serious about leaving, Katie.”
    Suddenly, I feel as if I’m tiptoeing through a minefield without the slightest idea where to step. “I’m not the person you should be discussing this with.”
    “Why? Because you left?”
    “Because I’m a cop, and I’m not going to discuss it. Do you understand?”
    She holds my gaze. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.” She lowers her voice. “I don’t fit in. I’m drawn to all the things I shouldn’t be. Music and . . . art. I want to . . . read books and watch movies and see places I’ve never seen. I want to go to college and . . .”
    “You can pursue all of those things without fighting and getting into trouble,” I tell her.
    “I can’t do those things and remain Amish.”
    “You’re too young to be making such an important decision.”
    “I hate being Amish.”
    “You don’t know what you want.”
    “I know exactly what I want!” she retorts. “I’m going to design clothes. English clothes. For women. I know that sounds like some stupid pipe dream. Or according to my datt : devilment.” She does a decent impersonation of her father. “He doesn’t get me, Katie. I’m so good with the needle and thread. Just ask Mamm. She knows I could make a go of it. Only she won’t admit it.”
    She motions at the tank she’s wearing. “I made this! Look at it. It’s beautiful, but Mamm won’t let me wear it. She won’t even let me sell it at the Carriage Stop. She says it’s got too much ornamentation and that it’s prideful.”
    The words tumble out of her in a rush, too fast and falling over one another, as if she’s been holding them inside and some invisible dam has burst. I recall a vague memory from a couple of months ago: My sister, Sarah, telling me about this girl’s needlework. I hadn’t paid much attention at the time; my sister and I have been dealing with our own issues. But Sarah had gone on