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peace officer or medical worker. Still, Bishop Troyer claimed someone was there the morning he discovered her on his front porch. I suspect Chloe stayed to ensure that her baby was taken in immediately. That means something; it tells me she was responsible enough—that she cared enough—to make certain the vulnerable newborn was not left alone.
    Chloe probably wasn’t aware of the law’s details. She may have simply left the child at the only safe place she could think of; the only place where she believed she could remain anonymous: the Amish bishop. It doesn’t negate the fact that she didn’t follow the law, but I know the county attorney will take all of the circumstances into consideration when—or if—charges are filed.
    The Athertons live in the upscale Maple Crest subdivision. It’s nearly six P.M. by the time I pull into the driveway and park behind a silver Land Rover. The house is a massive Tudor with a four-car garage, landscaping befitting a European castle, and an extravagant entrance covered with ivy. I take the curved flagstone path to the front porch and make use of the brass knocker.
    I hear voices on the other side of the door. A girl calling out to someone. Laughter. The door swings open and I find myself looking at a tall, slender teenage girl with huge brown eyes, her dark hair cut into a messy bob. She’s wearing loose-fitting sweat pants and an oversize Painters Mill Panthers sweatshirt Bare feet. Toenails painted blue.
    “Chloe Atherton?” I say.
    She steps back as if expecting me to reach in, grab her, and drag her away. Her mouth opens, a sound of distress escaping between perfect white teeth. Her eyes widen as she takes in my uniform. She looks over her shoulder. Her fingers twitch on the doorknob, and I know she’s thinking about slamming it in my face.
    “There’s no one here by that name,” she says quietly.
    “Don’t be afraid,” I tell her. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
    “You have the wrong house.” She starts to close the door.
    I put my hand out and stop her. “No, I don’t.”
    “What do you want?”
    “I just want to talk. That’s all.”
    She glances over her shoulder again, and I realize her most pressing concern is her father. “Just go away,” she whispers. “Please.”
    “Honey?” comes a male voice from somewhere inside the house. “Hey, the sweet potato fries are burning.”
    I look past her to see Dr. Damon Atherton approach. He’s still in his work clothes. Custom trousers. Lavender pinstripe button-down shirt. Tie askew. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Big Rolex strapped to his wrist. He’s probably just arrived home from the hospital after a busy day.
    He looks perplexed by my presence. Slightly annoyed that dinnertime with his daughter has been interrupted. “Can I help you?”
    I show him my badge and identify myself.
    His gaze switches from me to his daughter and then back to me. “Is everything all right?”
    “Everything is fine, sir,” I tell him. “If you have a minute, I’d like to talk to you.”
    He blinks at me, surprised, but invites me inside. “Of course. Come in.”
    I enter a tiled foyer with an impossibly high ceiling and gleaming walnut floors. Overhead, a crystal chandelier dangles like a giant diamond earring. To my right, a console table holds a massive vase. I can smell the fresh-cut flowers from where I stand.
    “You’ll have to excuse the boxes,” he tells me.
    For the first time I notice several corrugated boxes stacked against the wall ahead. “You’re moving?” I ask.
    “I just accepted a chief-of-pediatrics position in Phoenix.”
    “Big change.”
    He grins. “Nicer weather.”
    I smile at his daughter. “Are you excited or bummed?”
    She attempts to smile, but doesn’t quite manage. “I’m ready.”
    “She’s a trouper,” he says affectionately.
    “When’s the big move?” I ask.
    “Two days and counting.” Smiling, he puts his arm around his daughter’s shoulder and hugs her