you wise advice, even though you never take it, but—”
“They’re Amish.”
Emma went very still. “Three?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Two weeks. The usual reluctance to involve outsiders.”
She knew it too well. “How old?”
“Sixteen to nineteen.”
“Rumspringa?” Emma asked. Growing up on the family ranch in Eden Falls, Pennsylvania, the Amish and their ways had always been part of the fabric of her life. Rum springa, that time when young people are allowed to explore the outside world, then make their own decision on whether to return to the religion and simple lifestyle of the Amish, had always fascinated her as a teenager. She simply couldn’t picture why anyone would voluntarily leave behind the world of convenience and technology for such … deprivation. Yet eighty percent of them did.
Now she wasn’t quite so arrogant about her assumptions. She’d seen enough in her years as an FBI agent to understand the appeal of pulling back from the hectic, crazy—and sometimes perverted—world of today.
She realized she was tracing the intricate pattern of the quilt on her bed. An exquisitely designed and handmade Amish quilt, a traditional diamond-on-point pattern in soothing blues, that she’d brought with her from home. Her mother had purchased it from one of their neighbors, had loved it and cared for it so well it seemed almost new. It had come to her as the eldest daughter, after that horrible, shocking day in September 2001, the day that had stolen the loving, generous couple who had taken them all in, adopted them and given them a life beyond anything they ever could have hoped for—
“Emma?”
She snapped out of her reverie. “Sorry. What?”
“I said yes, Rumspringa. They’re all from Paradise Ridge.”
That brought it even closer to home for her; Paradise Ridge literally bordered the Colton ranch. She might even know the families, she thought with a sudden qualm. They had often bought fresh produce and milk from the local farmers.
She had a sudden vivid flash of memory. A young Amish girl near her own age of ten, from when she and her father, Donovan Colton, had stopped to offer assistance to a driver of one of the iconic Amish carriages that added tourist-drawing quaintness to the Pennsylvania countryside. One of those tourists had passed too close in their rental car, clipping the corner of the carriage and sending the right rear wheel onto rain-softened ground, and then proceeded merrily on their way, either uncaring or oblivious to damage done.
She remembered her father pulling the ranch truck up behind the carriage, angling it so that no oncoming car could repeat the incident.
The first concern of her father, a horseman of many years, was the welfare of the animal pulling the carriage. Emma herself had been fascinated by the child who remained in the carriage while her father had gotten out to inspect the damage. She remembered the girl’s simple dress, in contrast to her own jeans and T-shirt. She remembered the vivid blue of her eyes as she peeked out to stare in apparent equal fascination at Emma. The only thing she remembered from the conversation between the adults was the Amish man’s quiet acceptance; he expected no better from the English, as they called anyone not Amish.
She shook her head, ordering herself to stop meandering and pay attention.
“You think your case is connected to mine.” It wasn’t a question. Didn’t really have to be. But Tate echoed her own thoughts on the matter anyway.
“I think the likelihood of two independent serial kidnappers—and maybe killers—targeting the exact same class of victims, even three hundred miles apart, is slim.”
“But possible.”
“Anything’s possible. But likely?”
“No.”
Sometimes both their jobs relied on simply going with the odds, Emma thought. Still she hesitated. She was reluctant to abandon, even temporarily, her own case. She had not just three, but a string of missing girls going back nearly three months. But because of that reluctance to involve outsiders, and even more to involve federal outsiders, she’d been called in so late there had been little to find, and the suspect’s trail and the case had quickly gone cold.
Because they’d relocated to Pennsylvania?
Not that any of the Colton brood didn’t get along, Emma thought. They’d been taught to respect their quiet, peaceful neighbors and appreciate their industrious ways. But Tate was a Philadelphia cop and had come a long way from those youthful, halcyon days on the ranch.
“All right,” she said decisively. “I’ll be on my way.”
“Text me your flight number. I’ll pick you up, bring you up to speed on the way to the ranch.”
Emma hung up and scrambled out of bed. She called her supervisory agent and left a long voice mail explaining, emphasizing the likely connection to their case to head off any dissent about her being called in by her brother. It was legit, she told herself. If the cases were related, then it crossed state borders and they were involved anyway.
Then she made a reservation for the next flight from Cleveland to Philadelphia. She could probably drive it in about the same amount of time, but wanted to arrive fresh and have a chance to study the pictures and basic details Tate was sending.
Her timeline now set, she showered, quickly dried her hair and pulled it into her usual ponytail. Then she went about the business of packing, although since she and her family had enough clothing left permanently at the ranch to handle everything but the longest visit, it was mainly toiletries and the rather severe pantsuits she generally wore. They were expensive, yes, but subtly so and made to last.
She’d long ago decided she wasn’t going to stress out over what to wear to present the proper image; she’d found a style that worked, plain, simple, yet exquisitely cut to flatter, and bought several in the colors she considered acceptable for work—black, dark blue or gray. Not only was it easier, but if she was always wearing the same thing, her attire—and the severe hairstyle—never distracted from her professional demeanor. Sometimes she even resorted to dark-framed glasses to somewhat mask the vivid green of her eyes.
Overall, she strove for a neutral, businesslike look. It was helpful not only with civilians, but with her male colleagues, as well. She had enough trouble with assumptions people made about her, from riding on the Colton name to being a “poor little rich girl,” and she didn’t want to add to them with any blatantly upscale clothing, fancy jewelry or anything else that might remind people of her background. Especially her connection to Joseph Colton, who was, in essence, the boss of all her bosses.
She shook off the old concerns, went to the nightstand and took out her weapon. With no children in the apartment, she kept the Glock 23 ready for use, and she slipped it into the holster at her waist. It had become a part of her now, and she was, sometimes to her brother’s dismay, a better shot than he was. Their phone calls to compare
