I withhold a smile. “None taken.”
He’s barely gotten the words out when an Amish man enters the mudroom and crosses to the door. He’s tall—well over six feet—with muscled shoulders and the beginnings of a paunch, divulging the fact that, despite his fitness, he’s a well-fed man. He’s blond and has a brown beard that reaches halfway down his belly, telling me he’s married. I guess him to be in his mid-forties. Dressed in black trousers, suspenders, and a vest over a white shirt, he is an imposing figure.
His eyes are the color of onyx beneath heavy brows, and they take in our presence with no emotion. “Can I help you?” he asks, but he makes no move to invite us inside.
“Afternoon, Mr. King,” Sheriff Goddard begins. “We’d like to talk to you about your daughter.”
The Amish man’s expression remains impassive as his eyes move from Goddard to Tomasetti and me.
Goddard introduces us, letting him know which agency we represent. “They’re here to help us find Annie, Mr. King. We were wondering if you and your wife could answer a few questions.”
King’s eyes narrow on me. I’m not sure if he recognized my last name as a common Amish one or if he’s merely curious because I’m from Holmes County. He doesn’t ask, turning his attention to Goddard. “Do you have news of her?” he asks.
“We think we found her bag,” the sheriff tells him.
A quiver runs through King, as if hope and terror are waging war inside him. “Where?”
“A couple of miles from the vegetable stand,” Goddard says. “Have you had any luck on your end?”
The man’s shoulders fall forward and he shakes his head. “No,” he says, and opens the door.
We enter a mudroom with a scuffed plank floor and two bare windows, which usher in plenty of light. I see six straw hats hanging neatly on wooden dowels set into the wall. Muddy work boots are lined up on a homemade rug. An ancient wringer washing machine that smells of soap and mildew has been shoved into a corner. A basket filled with clothespins sits on the floor next to the machine.
King leads us through a doorway and into a large, well-used kitchen. The aromas of bread, seared meat, and kerosene greet me, and the same sense of déjà vu from earlier grips me. Light filters in from a single window over the sink, but it’s not enough to cut the shadows. Dual lanterns glow yellow from atop a rectangular table covered with a blue-and-white-checkered cloth. Scraped-clean plates and a smattering of flatware and a few drinking glasses litter the table’s surface, and I realize that though it’s not yet four o’clock, this family has just finished dinner. That’s when I notice the one place setting that hasn’t been touched. Annie’s, I realize. It’s a symbol of their hope that she will return, of their faith that God will bring her back to them and their prayers will be answered. It’s been a long time since I put that kind of faith in anything. It makes me sad to think that this family might soon realize that some prayers go unanswered.
An Amish girl barely into her teens gathers dishes from the table and carries them to the sink, where an Amish woman wearing a dark blue dress, white apron, and a gauzy white kapp has her hands immersed in soapy water, her head bowed. She’s so embroiled in the task, or perhaps her thoughts, she doesn’t notice us until her husband speaks.
“Mir hen Englischer bsuch ghadde,” he says, meaning “We have English visitors.”
The woman turns, her mouth open in surprise. I guess her to be at least a decade younger than her husband. I suspect that at one time she was beautiful, but there’s a hollowed-out countenance to her appearance. The look of the bereaved. I doubt she’s eaten or slept or had a moment’s peace of mind since her daughter went missing. Despite her faith, worry for her child’s well-being has begun eating away at her like some flesh-eating bacteria that can’t be stopped.
“I’m Kate Burkholder,” I tell her. “We’re here to help you find Annie.” Before even realizing I’m going to move, I’m across the kitchen and extending my hand. I sense the collective attention of Goddard and Tomasetti on me, and I address her in Pennsylvania Dutch. “Can we sit and talk awhile?”
The woman blinks at me as if I’ve shocked her. Out of sheer politeness, she raises her hand to mine. It’s wet and limp and cold, and I find myself wanting to warm it. Her eyes sweep to her husband, asking for his permission to speak with me, I realize, and I try not to be annoyed with her. His gaze levels on me. I stare back, not missing the hardness of his expression or the mistrust in his eyes.
He gives her a minute nod.
“I’m Edna.” She raises her eyes to mine. “Sitz dich anne un bleib e weil.” Sit yourself down and stay a while. “I’ll make coffee.”
CHAPTER 5