Page 46 of Shamed

“Hello back at you.” I muster a smile that feels plastic on my face. “We haven’t found Elsie yet, but we’re looking hard.”

“We miss her!”

“She’s probably hungry!”

“And cold!”

The words strike like punches to a place that’s tender and bruised. I look at Miriam to find her eyes already on me. “I need to talk to you,” I say. “Privately.”

The woman twists off the burner knob and sets down the spoon. Looking at her children, she brings her hands together. “Pudding’s just about done,” she tells them. “Go wash your hands and faces. Luke, go get your brother in the barn.”

The kids scramble from their chairs. Luke grins at me as he heads for the back door.

“That’ll buy us a few minutes.” Grabbing a mug, Miriam walks to the table and sinks into a chair. “You bring news?”

I take the chair across from her. I’m hyperaware of that ticking clock that has embedded itself in my brain. An unbearable amount of time has passed since the girl went missing; there’s no time for niceties. I’m too tired to make the effort. Worse, I’m pissed off, because I’m pretty sure this woman has been lying to me, so I get right to the point of my visit.

“Elam was born in November of 2011,” I tell her. “Becky was born in December 2012. Miriam, there’s no way you could have had Elsie in between.”

The woman blinks at me. “But … she came early, you know. Just four pounds of her.”

“When was Elsie born?”

For the first time she looks flustered. “The babies came so close together sometimes I lose track.…”

“Stop lying to me.” I smack my hand against the table. “Your little girl’s life is in danger and all I’m getting from you are lies.”

“I’m not. I just … I got a little confused on the dates is all.”

I rise, go to her, bend, so that my face is less than a foot away from hers. Now that I’m close, I see the telltale signs of sleepless nights and stress piled atop of stress. The whites of her eyes are a road map of capillaries. Lips dry and cracked. Breath that smells of coffee and sour milk. Worst of all is the abiding terror that’s got its claws sunk deep into her, a relentless beast devouring her from the inside out.

“Elsie isn’t your biological child, is she?” I say quietly.

The woman stares at me, unspeaking for the span of several heartbeats. Then the flesh of her cheeks begin to quiver. Her body follows suit, shaking so violently I’m afraid she’s going to vibrate off the chair and fall to a heap at my feet.

“She’s mine,” she whispers. “She’s always been mine. In every way.”

Generally speaking, the Amish are stoic when it comes to displays of emotion. That’s not to say they don’t grieve, or have tempers or feel fear; like the rest of us, they do and just as keenly. But they’re not prone to outbursts, not even children.

Evidently, Miriam Helmuth has reached her breaking point. Her child is missing. Her mother is dead—violently murdered. If I’m going to get anything out of her, now is the time to do it, so I push.

“The choice you make at this moment may be the only thing that saves your daughter’s life,” I say. “Think about that before you lie to me again.”

Squeezing her eyes shut, she lowers her head.

“Do you know where she is?” I ask.

“God, no.”

“Do you know who has her?”

Closing her eyes tightly, she shakes her head, grappling for control, her emotions teetering on the edge of some bottomless abyss. “I don’t know,” she cries. “I don’t know why they did what they did.”

“Who are ‘they’ and what did they do?” I ask.

A sob escapes her. She puts a trembling hand over her mouth, holds it tightly against her face, and then she doubles over as if she’s in physical pain.

I wait, impatience and compassion and anger warring inside me.