Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(23)

The image of a shivering, frightened child, all alone—or with someone intent on harming her—tears me up inside. Makes me feel ineffective and powerless because I’m unable to prevent it. Time is like sand running between my fingers.

Rising abruptly, Miriam rushes from the room.

I look at Ivan. “I need to ask you about Mary Yoder.”

“I’m finished with your questions. All this talking … it’s not helping.” He buttons his coat and strides to the door, but he doesn’t leave. He stands there with his hand on the knob, breathing heavily, looking down at the floor. After a moment, he storms through without speaking.

I become aware of the children sitting at the table. Their spoons have fallen silent. Cereal going soggy. Five pairs of eyes pin me where I stand, expressions apprehensive and confused.

“Mamm says God will take care of Elsie,” says a girl of about eight or nine.

“Grossmammi isn’t coming back.” The youngest girl closes her eyes and begins to cry.

A girl of ten or eleven puts her arm around her. “Shush now. Grossmammi’s in heaven with God and all of us are going to be there with her one day.”

“No one knows where Elsie is.” The little boy speaks up for the first time. “Mr. Miller said someone stole her.”

Realizing the conversation is about to go in a more speculative and dark direction, I move to refocus them. “What are your names?” I ask.

The question seems to startle them, but they come around quickly. The oldest girl straightens, sets her hands on the table in front of her. “I’m Irma.”

I turn my attention to the child sitting next to her and raise my brows. “How about you?”

A girl with strawberry-blond hair and eyes the color of spring grass squirms beneath my stare. “I’m Becky and I’m seven.”

I look from child to child; each mutters their name and age, polite but reluctant. Red-haired and freckled, Elam is eight. Gracie is nine and very pretty. At ten, Bonnie is thin and gangly, already taller than her older sister, and nearly as tall as her mamm.

“Luke and Annie are sleeping,” Becky finishes as she shovels cereal into her mouth. She’s the only one who has resumed eating.

“I’m Katie Burkholder, the chief of police,” I tell them. “I want you to know we’re doing everything we can to find your sister.”

A shower of measured responses sound, but they’re uttered with such softness I can barely make out the words. They don’t believe me—the Englischer—I realize, and the reality of that bothers me more than I want to acknowledge.

Becky begins to cry. “I want Elsie to come home. She always comes to my room and kisses me good night. Sometimes she tickles my belly.”

“I’ll kiss you good night,” Bonnie says. “But I’m not tickling your belly.”

“Shush now.” Irma sets her hand over Becky’s. “We all miss her. It’s like Mamm says. God will take care of her. And He will send her back to us.”

Elam picks up his spoon, but he doesn’t eat. Instead, his moss-green eyes slide from his sister to me. “What if you can’t find her, Chief Katie?”

“I’ll find her,” I tell him.

“Mamm says Elsie was a gift,” Becky says.

Bonnie’s expression softens. “I’ve known that since the day Bishop Troyer brought her—” She cuts off the words. Her eyes skate away from mine and back to her cereal bowl. Quickly, she raises a spoonful of cereal to her mouth and begins to chew, staring straight ahead. I look around and notice Irma won’t look at me.

It’s an odd moment. I almost chalk it up to what has surely been a wearisome day. But in light of today’s events, I’m curious what Bonnie had been about to say.

“What about the bishop?” I ask.

Bonnie swallows. “Nothing,” she mumbles.

I wait, but she keeps her eyes on her bowl and won’t meet my gaze.

Next to me, Irma and Becky exchange a look I can’t quite decipher and I sense a strange rise of tension. What the hell?

After a moment, Irma pats her lap. “Kumma do.” Come here.

Clenching her spoon, Becky climbs onto Irma’s lap, and with two spoons the girls begin to share the bowl of cereal. All the while something I can’t quite articulate niggles at the back of my brain.

Miriam enters the kitchen, a girl’s coat in her hands, and the moment is gone. She glances toward the door, realizes her husband has left, and lowers it to her side. She looks bereft for a moment, then turns her attention to the children, slips back into her mamm persona.

“What are all of you still doing up? Staying up past bedtime isn’t going to help us find Elsie now, is it? You’ll just be sleepy in the morning.”

The Amish woman brings her hands together. “Come on now. Up to bed. All of you.” She shakes her head with exaggerated admonition. “Eating breakfast at ten o’clock at night. My word.”

Chairs scrape against the floor. Irma takes a final bite of cereal and then gathers their bowls, takes them to the sink. The others clamber to the door. The little boy goes to his mamm and throws his arms around her hips, lets his cheek sink into her skirts. “Night.”

She sets her hand on his head. “You say a prayer for Grossmammi and Elsie,” she says to all of them.