Nanty Glo is a sleepy little town about half the size of Painters Mill. From the looks of things, the bad economy has hit this town particularly hard. A smattering of vacant storefronts peppers the downtown area. Large homes that had once been grand look tired and downtrodden. The town almost has a postapocalyptic feel. Within minutes, I’ve passed through downtown and I’m in a rural area that’s hilly and thick with trees. I’m looking for a gas station to ask for directions to the trailer park when I spot the sign for Blacklick Creek Road. Braking hard, I make the turn.

A quarter mile down, I see the sign for the Glad Acres mobile home park. I turn in and I’m met with a gravel lane that’s blocked with a chain and a sign that probably once warned off interlopers with NO TRESPASSING, but the letters have long since faded. I stop the Explorer and get out. I barely notice the lightly falling rain or the cackle of a rookery in the treetops, and I approach the chain. I can tell by the slope of the land that there’s a creek at the base of the hill.

There are some places that, due to time or circumstance, have earned their state of deterioration. Glad Acres has no such claim. It had never been pretty. The park comprises a single street with four ancient mobile homes lined up like crushed railroad cars in pastel colors streaked with rust. Several have broken windows; at least one is missing a door. At first I think the entire park has been abandoned. Then I notice the bumper of a car parked on the far side of the last trailer.

Stepping over the chain, I start toward the trailer. It’s not yet 6 P.M., but the overcast sky and fog make it seem like dusk. Light glows at the window. As I pass by the vacant trailers, I see fingers of fog rising from the ground, and I sense I’m being watched. I reach the last trailer and take the wooden steps to the door and knock.

The door opens almost immediately. I find myself looking at an older woman in a housedress and camo jacket. “That ‘No Trespassing’ sign is there for a reason,” she says in a cigarette-rough voice.

For an instant, I’m tempted to point out that the sign is illegible, but I don’t think that will help my cause, so I smile and show her my badge. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m the police chief in Painters Mill, Ohio. I’m looking for someone. Would you mind answering a few quick questions for me?”

“Since you’re a cop, I reckon I don’t have a choice.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Going on thirty years now.” She motions toward a rusted-out swing set lying on its side on the slope that leads to the creek below. “Used to be nicer. People had kids. Jobs.”

“What happened?”

“Coal mine closed. Folks got laid off. Moved away.”

“You rent this place? Or own it?”

She frowns at me and shakes her head. “I own the whole park. Goddamn property taxes keep me broke, but that’s the government for you.”

“I was told there was an Amish woman by the name of Becky Weaver who used to live here. Do you know her?”

“I knew Becky. Lived here for twenty or so years. She died a couple of months ago.”

“Do you know how she died?”

“Heart attack or stroke or something. She was a strange bird, that one.”

“How so?”

“Well, for one thing, she wasn’t sure if she was Amish or English. Wore them Amish dresses and bonnet thingie, but let me tell you, there wasn’t nothing godly about her. Kept to herself mostly, but she had her share of men come over, and they weren’t there to fix the plumbing.” She speaks with a great deal of animation, and I realize she enjoys her gossip. “I always thought it was wrong of her to be that way with that girl around, but—”

“What girl?” I cut in.

“Her daughter. Ruth.”

“She had a daughter?”

“That’s what I just said.”

“Who was the father?”

“Never asked and she never said. She wadn’t much for small talk.”

“How old is her daughter?”

“Early thirties now, I’d say. Lived here until a few years ago, but she visited every so often. Ain’t seen her since her mama passed, though.”

The information pings inside my head, a rubber ball with no place to land. “Do you know where the daughter lives now?”

“No idea.”

“Did either of them have jobs?”

“Not like regular jobs. They cleaned houses and such, but it was kind of hit-or-miss.”

“Did they clean for anyone in particular?”

“I wouldn’t know. We weren’t exactly friendly.”

“Were you her landlord?”

“Yes, ma’am, I was.”

“Do you have a file? Maybe an application she filled out? An address or phone number for the daughter? Anything like that?”

“They wasn’t real forthcoming with information. And I don’t keep them kind of records, anyways. Alls I know is Becky paid on time every month, and usually in cash.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about either woman? Or anything that might help me find Ruth?”

The woman shrugs. “Not really. Only talked to Ruth a handful of times over the years and she was about as strange as her mama. Looked like her a little bit, too.”

Nodding, my mind whirling with this new bit of information, I eye the three abandoned mobile homes. “Which trailer was theirs?”

The woman points. “Blue and white one in the middle there. Not sure how the window got broke. Damn teenagers, probably.”

“Do you mind if I take a look inside?”

“Knock your socks off. It ain’t locked, and I sure don’t think she left any valuables behind. Just close the door when you’re done. Don’t need no raccoons tearing things up.”

“Thank you.” I turn away and start down the stairs, but think of one more question. “What last name did Ruth go by?” I ask.

“Weaver. Ruth Weaver.”

*   *   *

The interior of the trailer reeks of rotting food and backed-up sewage with the underlying redolence of moldy carpet. I’m standing just inside the door in a small living room. The kitchen is to my right. To my left is a hall that presumably leads to the bedrooms and bathroom. Leaving the door open for ventilation, I walk into the kitchen. The window is broken. The curtains are rain-wilted and discolored. On the floor, a single mushroom sprouts from threadbare carpet. To my left, a 1970s yellow refrigerator has been tipped onto its face. From where I’m standing, I see what had once been a package of cold cuts and a half gallon of ice cream dried to a sticky goo on the floor. The counters are covered with rat droppings and several mismatched plastic containers. A filthy dish strainer sits in the sink.

Slipping on my gloves, I start with the drawers, quickly going through each one. I find take-out menus. Plastic utensils. What had once been a loaf of bread, but is now an unrecognizable blue-green blob inside the wrapper. In the final drawer, I find an old phone book. Tucked inside, I discover an article from the Painters Mill Weekly Advocate newspaper about the murder of Willis Hochstetler, the disappearance of his wife, Wanetta, and the deaths of their four children. Because they were Amish, there are no photos of the family, just the burned-out shell of the house and a chilling headline: MURDER IN AMISH COUNTRY. It’s another connection, so I fold the article and put it in my pocket.

I’m not sure what I hope to find. At this point, any information would be helpful. Social security numbers. Aliases used. The addresses of employers or friends. Utility bills. A phone bill. But after a quick search of the two bedrooms, I realize neither woman left anything behind. All I have is the newspaper article and the name of a woman who seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.

*   *   *

When a case breaks, the last place you want to be is on the road, two hundred miles away from home base. Unfortunately, that’s the position I find myself in as I hightail it toward Painters Mill. Once I hit the highway, I call Glock.

“Wanetta Hochstetler was alive up until a few months ago,” I begin without preamble. “She’s been living in Pennsylvania under the assumed name of Becky Weaver.”