Linda Castillo: Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

“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 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.”