standing in the doorway of my office. “You’ve got a visitor.”
Ashley Hodges appears beside her. The first time I met her, she looked like the all-American high school girl: bright eyed and engaged, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Now, there are dark circles beneath troubled eyes. A bruise next to her mouth. She looks as if she hasn’t slept in days.
“Come in and have a seat.” I nod at Lois and then turn my attention to Ashley, motioning toward the visitor chair adjacent to my desk. “Did your parents bring you?” I ask.
The girl settles into the chair and shakes her head. “I rode my bike.”
I nod and wait.
Folding her hands in her lap, she looks down at them. “I think I screwed up.”
“How so?”
A pause follows, as if her list of mistakes is so long she doesn’t know where to begin. After a moment, she glances toward the door, as if she’s frightened someone might overhear what she’s about to say, and then she whispers, “Someone is sending me notes.”
“What kind of notes?” I ask.
Reaching into the pocket of her hoodie, she removes two folded scraps of paper and passes them to me. “I only have two. I threw away the first one.”
The paper is plain and unlined, torn from a notebook, and folded once. Using the tip of my pen, I open the one on top and read.
WE DON’T APPROVE.
The words are printed in what looks like black marker. All caps. “Any idea who it came from?” I ask.
Without looking at me, she shakes her head. “No.”
“Where did you find it?”
“One was in my locker at school. The other one was tucked into my American History book. I don’t know when or how it got there. The first one—the one I threw away—was in a regular envelope in the mailbox at home.”
I go to the second note. YOU’RE A DIME. DITCH THE CRINGEY AMISH.
I look at Ashley. “Dime?”
She frowns, rolls her eyes. “It’s kind of a slang word for ‘A perfect ten.’”
I stare at the words, something tickling the back of my brain. CRINGEY. I’ve heard the word before.
“Do you recognize the handwriting?” I ask.
“No.”
“How did your parents react?”
“I didn’t tell them.”
“Why not?”
A brief hesitation and then she raises her gaze to mine. “It would just give them one more reason to forbid me to see Noah. They already don’t approve. My dad hates him because he’s Amish. He has all these plans for me. College. Law school.”
I sigh. “Is that why you didn’t come to me until now?”
She jerks her head. “This is all my fault. If I’d come to you right away, maybe none of this would have happened.”
I give her a moment, then ask, “What did the first note say?”
“Something like: We got eyes on him. I’m paraphrasing, but . . .” Leaning forward, she puts her face in her hands and begins to cry. “I never dreamed someone would actually do something so awful.”
“Ashley, can you think of anyone who might’ve written those notes?”
She gives a vigorous shake of her head. “Who does something like that, Chief Burkholder? I mean, Noah is incredibly sweet.” Fierceness and defiance flash in her eyes. “He may have only gone to the eighth grade, but he’s smart. And as far as his career? How many seventeen-year-old kids have built a room full of beautiful furniture with their own hands?”
Something akin to admiration flutters in my chest. I think of my own teen years and try to recall if any of my early relationships were ever so crystal clear.
I touch the note with the tip of my pen. “Ashley, do you know anyone with the last name Savage?”
The girl goes perfectly still. She looks at me, her expression startled, her mouth open slightly. “No,” she says after a moment.
For a full minute, neither of us speaks. I let the silence ride, watching her grow increasingly uncomfortable.
“You’re not a very good liar,” I say.
She drops her gaze to her hands, her fingers tangling nervously in her lap.
I dig my cell from my pocket, swipe to the photo of the knife, and hold it out for her to see. “I found this on the trail the night you were attacked. The knife was open. He had a weapon, Ashley. If you have any idea who this might belong to, you need to tell me right now.”
“It’s not a name.” She whispers the words without looking at me.
“What then?”
“It’s a . . . clique. At school. The