Page 98 of Shamed

I pull the spiral pad from my pocket. “Do you have a name?”

“Rosanna only mentioned her once or twice in all the years I knew her.” Closing her eyes, she presses her fingers to her temples. “Ruby something. I remember because it’s kind of an unusual name for an Amish woman.” She massages her temples. “Mullet.” Her eyes open. “Ruby Mullet.”

Behind me, I hear Tomasetti move. “Does she live in the area?” he asks.

“Last I heard she owned a farm down south, on the other side of the river. Eads Hollow, I think.”

Ten minutes later, Tomasetti and I are back in the Explorer. “If she’s right about Rosanna being Marlene Byler’s daughter, then Mary Yoder was her aunt,” I say.

“There’s your connection. Might be why the bishop chose the Helmuths. To keep the child with family.”

“What does it mean in terms of the case?” I ask.

“It means we have one more place to look for that girl.” Tomasetti puts the Explorer in gear and starts down the lane. “I don’t have to tell you we’re going to be a couple of light-years out of our jurisdiction.”

“I’m aware.” I type Eads Hollow into my phone. “We’re twenty minutes away.”

He sighs as he makes the turn onto the highway.

I call Dispatch. “Lois, can you pull up the tax roll for Boyd County, Kentucky, and do a property search for Ruby Mullet?” I spell the last name. “I’m looking for an address.”

“Sure.”

Keys clack on the other end. Lois makes a few noises, including a “crap” and “dang it,” and then she tells me, “It looks like Ruby Mullet owns a thirty-acre tract in Eads Hollow.” She rattles off an address.

I enter it into my GPS. “Any news on David Troyer?”

“No change, Chief. Last time I checked he’s still in a coma, but holding his own.”

“Let me know if anything changes.” I end the call and recite the address to Tomasetti.

“Get the Boyd County Sheriff’s Department on the line,” he says.

I’m already dialing the number. It takes a few minutes, but I finally get connected with the chief deputy, who agrees to have a deputy meet us at the Mullet address.

CHAPTER 27

One hundred and seventeen hours missing

We cross the Ohio River at the Twelfth Street Bridge and enter Kentucky. From there, Tomasetti takes us south on US 23 through the verdant foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. A few miles before Catlettsburg, the GPS instructs him to make a right on Route 168 and head west. I’m thinking about the things I’ve learned about Rosanna Detweiler and all the dark possibilities they present. My conversation with her mother-in-law hovers in the backwaters of my mind.

The women used to gossip about poor Rosanna and her not having any little ones.

Gossipmongers saying she wasn’t fit to be a mother.

It must have hurt her something awful.

I’m so lost in my thoughts I don’t notice when Tomasetti nearly misses his turn. Cursing, he brakes hard, then backs up twenty feet or so to make the turn onto Johnson Fork Road. Another mile and he takes an unnamed dirt track. A half a mile in we reach our destination.

“Home sweet home,” he mutters as he parks the Explorer on the barely-there shoulder.

The property owned by Ruby Mullet has the look of a place that’s been abandoned for many years. A gray frame house sits fifty yards off the road, nestled in a thicket of trees and nearly hidden from view. There’s no sign of the Boyd County sheriff’s deputy’s cruiser.

We get out. It’s so quiet I can hear the breeze hissing through the high grass. The rattle of tree branches against the steel-shingled roof.

“Let’s see if Grandma can shed some light on the situation,” Tomasetti says.

My boots sink into mud as I walk to what was once a driveway. It’s little more than an impression in the weeds that cuts through the trees. It looks driven upon, but any tire tracks have long since been washed away.