“Truewind, are we clear?” Ms. Markham’s voice was sharp, fast. Like the crack of a whip.
“Uh, sorry, ma’am. Yes, ma’am. We’re clear. It won’t happen again.”
“Good.” Ms. Markham returned her attention to her computer screen and absently rubbed her neck with one hand. The metal clasp on her activity tracker caught the sun and threw a glint of light toward Dahlia.
“Ms. Markham?”
“You’re still here. You’re dismissed.”
“I wanted to explain why I’ve been staying late—”
“I don’t care. Just don’t do it anymore.”
“Yes, but … I’ve been going to the gym in the basement after work. I didn’t realize I needed permission. It’s just that ever since … what happened … I really need to exercise, to blow off some steam. Is that not okay?”
Ms. Markham’s eyes narrowed. “The gym’s available at lunch.” She paused. “But regular physical activity is important, for morale and fitness. I suppose I can authorize its use before and after hours. Just log your time as fitness under the administrative code on your timesheets so the hours you’re registered as being on the premises match the hours on your sheets. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am. And thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And you’re dismissed.”
Dahlia smiled—a genuine smile borne of relief. She turned to leave. When she was almost out the door, Ms. Markham cleared her throat.
“One more thing.”
Dahlia turned. “Yes?”
“You say ever since what happened you need to blow off steam?”
“Yes.”
Ms. Markham’s eyes blazed. “If that’s a reference to the incident in Vermillion, I thought I’d made this clear: Nothing happened. Bedrock Force was cleared of any culpability in the events that took place that day.”
“I … of course. But, I …” her voice faltered.
“Collateral damage happens. It’s the unfortunate byproduct of conflicts every day. We don’t dwell on it, Truewind.”
“No, ma’am. I mean, yes, ma’am.” Dahlia lowered her gaze to the floor.
“By all means, exercise your heart out. But I don’t want to hear another reference to Vermillion out of you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Dahlia bobbed her head and got out of the office before she said something she’d regret. Her days were numbered, anyway. Sooner or later, Ms. Markham would catch her at something and she wouldn’t be able to talk her way out of it.
Tonight, she’d take the satellite-communications box and run for it. It was the only way.
5
Wednesday morning
Walnut Bottom, Pennsylvania
Aroostine walked Carole and Janice to the kitchen door—the back exit had fewer stairs to navigate. The car service they’d called to take them to airport was already waiting in the driveway. The driver leaned against the hood of the car.
“Thanks for letting us spend the night,” Carole said.
“Of course. I’m really sorry I can’t help you.” She nodded toward Janice.
Even after a night’s sleep, the woman looked haggard and drawn. Although, Aroostine allowed, it was entirely possible Janice had spent the night the same way she had—staring at the cracks in the ceiling while hot tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.
Janice began to push her chair toward the open door. Suddenly, she stopped in a smooth motion, grabbed both rims and pushed one forward and the other back so that the chair spun around on the spot.
She faced Aroostine. Then she ducked her head and dug her hand into her shirt pocket. She removed a silver bauble and held it flat on her palm.
“What’s that?” Carole asked in a gentle voice.
“It’s Dahlia’s. She has one of those charm bracelets they sell at the jewelry stores in the Black Hills. She’d saved up for it for ages … I don’t even know how long. I thought she’d wait until she had enough to get a gold one, but not Dahlia. She wanted silver.” A sad smile tugged at her mouth at the memory.
“Silver suits her,” Carole observed.
Another small smile. “Anyway, she wore that thing all the time. But this charm must’ve fallen off while she was packing to leave for Sioux Falls. I found it under her bed and ….” She squeezed her hand shut around the charm, then opened it again.
“Is it a beaver?” Carole squinted at the charm.
“Yeah. Dahlia loves beavers. Weird, right? But when all the other girls were horse-crazy, she was going on and on about beavers. Anyway, I thought it might help you track her. Like, it’s an object tied to her. But if you’re not going to look for her ….” She trailed off and stared at Aroostine.
“May I see it?” Aroostine’s voice was unsteady, fast.
“Sure. I guess.”
Janice reached up and dropped the silver beaver into Aroostine’s open hand.
She made a fist around the cold metal for a moment. Then she flattened her right hand and used her left to pick up the charm. She inspected it, turning it so the light hit it from all angles. It was definitely a beaver. It sat on its little haunches with its front paws crossed in front of its chest—the same posture her spirit beaver almost always assumed in her visions.
Dahlia had held this charm, dangled it from a bracelet on her wrist, worn it while she dreamed her big city dreams. Aroostine had once had big city dreams of her own, not too long ago—as a high-powered prosecutor at the Department of Justice, righting wrongs. She’d moved to D.C., expecting Joe to follow. And when he hadn’t, it had stung.
But in the years that followed, she’d grown to understand his love for their hometown, for the familiar. And he’d come to support her dreams in his steady, quiet way. They’d finally settled into a life that fit them both. The last months of Joe’s life had been some of their best. Her throat squeezed and a tear slid down her cheek.
She shoved away the regret that threatened to sweep over her, shoved away the unfairness of losing him—of losing them. This girl Dahlia and her mother still had a chance. She owed it to Joe to give it to them if she could.
She met Janice’s eyes. “May I hang on to this for a while?”
Janice hesitated.
“Aroostine’s spirit animal is a beaver,” Carole said in a low voice.
A spark of shock, followed by a flicker of hope, lit in Janice’s eyes.
“Please, keep it,” she said.
Aroostine’s fingers trembled as she removed her own thin silver necklace from around her neck and threaded the charm onto it. She refastened the necklace, and the cold metal beaver nestled into the hollow at the base of her throat.
Carole flashed a smile. “Wonderful. Now, I can’t recall if I mentioned it when we spoke, but we have no money to pay you for your work. I trust that’s not a problem.”
Aroostine snorted. Vintage Carole.
“But, I do have a gift for you.” Carole reached into her bag and removed a thick orange envelope, slightly larger than a sheet of paper. It was folded in thirds. She pressed it into Aroostine’s hands.
“Tell her …” Janice began thickly. She stopped then choked out the words. “If you find her, please tell her I’m not mad at her. Tell her I love her.”
Aroostine nodded. She clenched the envelope so hard the edges began to crumple.
6
Thursday morning
Roxanne Markham swept her arm across her desk as if she were going to send everything on it—the computer, keyboard, phone, and stacks of papers—sailing across the room. Swanson tensed, anticipating the crash. At the last moment, she caught herself and pulled back her hand. She let out a long, low growl instead. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as it would have been to send everything flying.
“One more time, Swanson. You weren’t in my office before I arrived this morning?”
“No, ma’am.” His tone was the perfect mixture of sincerity and offense at being interrogated.
“What about after I left last night?”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, thinking. “Who was the first one in today?”
“Carissa Johnson, ma’am.”
“Get her in here.”
“Ma’am?”
“What?”
He inclined his head slightly. “May I ask what this is about?”
“No. Get her.”
“Right away, of course. It’s just—”
He reconsidered whatever he was about to say and turned to leave.
“Wait. It’s just what?”
He swung back around and met her eyes reluctantly. His Adam’s apple bobbed before he answered. “Nothing. I’ll take care of it.”
She could feel what little patience she’d managed to muster evaporating. “Take care of what?”
“Truewind didn’t show up this morning, ma’am. I have Jackson finishing the report she was supposed to be working on. It’s due to the client at ten-hundred.”
Truewind.
Hot anger flared in her stomach. “Did she call in sick?”
“No, ma’am. And she’s not answering her phone.”
“Truewind.” She said the name like a curse. She couldn’t believe a nineteen-year-old college dropout fresh off the reservation had made a fool of her. “Un-frigging-believable.”
Swanson stutter-stepped, back then front, like a ball handler trying to fake out a defender. “Should I get Jackson?” he asked uncertainly.
She closed her eyes and breathed through her nose. When she was sure her temper was under control, she opened her eyes and locked them on Swanson.
“No. Call our contact at Homeland Security.”
“Ma’am?”
“Do it now. She stole my sat-comm unit.”
“Dahlia Truewind? Ma’am, are you sure?”
Her slippery temper ran right through her fingertips. “Yes, Swanson. I’m sure. It’s gone. And she’s gone. Now get out of my sight. Call her one more time and then call DHS. And do not come back in here until you’ve reported an act of domestic terrorism to Homeland Security.”
He didn’t waste the time to stammer out an affirmative. He turned and ran.
Dahlia’s phone rang. Again.
She glanced down at the display.
Work. Again.
She shifted in her seat. She turned the phone off, flipped it over, and popped out the SIM card that held the pictures she’d taken of Ms. Markham’s files. She should have dumped the phone last night, before she got on the bus. But she hadn’t been thinking clearly.
She’d run home and thrown a random assortment of her belongings into the biggest duffel bag she owned—the one her mom had given her when she left for college. ‘So you can haul home your dirty laundry,’ Mom had said with a laugh. She’d laughed, too, even though they both knew there was zero chance she’d be traveling six hours all the way across the state to wash her clothes on weekends.
Mom. She blinked, fast, to hold back the tears.
She wanted so badly to go home, back to the reservation, back to a world she knew and understood. Back to Mom. She’d almost booked a ticket on a westbound bus.
But she couldn’t do that. Not after what she’d done. She’d shut her mom out. After all those years of it being just her and Mom, the two of them against the world, she’d acted like a selfish brat. Like she was better than her family, better than the people she’d grown up with. Like she was so special.
She’d been rotten to Mom toward the end—so focused on escaping the rez and making something of herself. She couldn’t tuck her tail between her legs and go crawling home to Pine Ridge now. Especially not now. It would be the first place Ms. Markham would think to look for her. She couldn’t bring that kind of trouble home.
But Ms. Markham’s going to look for you whether you’re there or not, she told herself as the bus bumped along the road. You should at least call and warn Mom.
She pressed her lips together. She couldn’t. If she called home, she knew she’d end up spilling the entire story to her mother. And that would put her in danger, too.
No, the smart thing to do would’ve been to head east to Chicago, somewhere with sophisticated newspapers and investigative reporters who could use the sat-comm device to expose Bedrock Force.
But she’d never been any further east than Sioux Falls. And even that had felt too big, too overwhelming. She didn’t know anyone in Chicago. And she worried she’d stick out.
So she’d compromised with herself. She didn’t go home and she didn’t go east. She went south. She figured she could lay low someplace where she had a chance of blending in—at least long enough to get her hands on the last few pieces of evidence she’d need to connect Bedrock Force to the murder of Mercy Locklear.
By the time she’d cleared out of her apartment and run all the way to the bus depot, it had been nearly eight o’clock. She missed the evening bus to Vermillion and ended up spending the night in a molded plastic chair. She’d considered trying to rent a car. But she knew none of the rental companies would rent a car to a teenager with no credit card. So she’d had no choice but to wait.
She’d been way too jittery to sleep. Instead, she’d kept one hand on her bag and the other pressed against her jacket pocket and swept the depot with constant, vigilant eyes. On the lookout for a familiar navy blue Bedrock Force polo shirt but also suspicious of anyone at all who seemed to be paying too much attention to her. The hours of high alert had left her drained.
She’d expected the rhythm of the highway to lull her to sleep during the bus ride, but that hadn’t happened either. It was late morning when the bus finally pulled out. By then, she already had a dull headache from fatigue.
The ache in her skull, her nerves, and the sporadic muttering of the guy in the seat next to her combined to keep her awake for the hour-long trip to Vermillion.
“Vermillion,” the bus driver announced, jarring Dahlia back to earth.
Dahlia patted the inside pocket of her jacket. She felt the hard outline of the satellite-communications device. Reassured, she hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and climbed over her seatmate.
“Hey. Hey, you. You forgot your phone,” the guy said without much enthusiasm.
She pretended not to hear him. She followed a couple college-aged kids—Vermillion University students, probably—as they shuffled toward the exit at the front of the bus.
After Swanson raced out of her office to make the phone calls, Roxanne sat motionless for a few minutes. Then, despite herself, she barked out a laugh. That tricky little bitch had gotten the better of her. But not for long.
Not for long, Truewind.
She thought for a moment. While protocol demanded she inform the Department of Homeland Security of the breach, she didn’t have to sit on her hands and wait for the feds to clean up her mess. And that wasn’t her style.
She pulled her personal cell phone out of her bag and scrolled through her contacts.
Johnny Arnetto answered on the first ring.
“Arnetto.”
“It’s Roxanne Markham.”
His voice snapped to attention. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am. I didn’t recognize your number, ma’am.”
“At ease, Arnetto. I’m calling from my personal number.”
There was a brief pause while Johnny processed this, trying to discern what it might mean. Then, “Is everything okay?”
“No. I have an off-the-books mission for you. It pays top dollar. That is, if you’re interested.”
She smiled to herself. Johnny Arnetto was always interested in picking up extra money. And he was never concerned about following the rules. It had made him a lousy soldier, but it also made him the perfect candidate for what she needed to have done now.
“Talk to me.”
“Someone took something that belongs to me. I want it back.”
“Sounds easy enough.”
“It should be. The thief is a girl by the name of Dahlia Truewind. A former employee. She’s Native American, out of the Lakota tr
ibe near the Badlands. She’s nineteen years old, a civilian.”
He laughed. “And this cakewalk pays top dollar?”
“Top dollar,” she confirmed.
“You got a last known on her?”
She flipped open Dahlia’s personnel file and rattled off the girl’s address and telephone number.
“What am I looking for?”
Her throat closed in on itself, unwilling to say the words. But he had to know. She gritted her teeth and forced the words out. “A government-issued cryptobox.”
Arnetto let out a long, low whistle. “She’s got some balls on her.”
Roxanne grunted. “Any other questions?”
“What’re the parameters of my assignment?”
“Get the box back.”
“I know that, but I mean …” he trailed off.
She knew what he meant. And she also knew he wasn’t going to say it.
“Johnny, I want that box back. By whatever means necessary.”
“By whatever means necessary,” he echoed.
“Correct. Call me when you have it.”
She ended the call and swiveled her desk chair around to watch out the window for the arrival of the inevitable nondescript black sedan that would deliver a pissed-off Homeland Security agent. She knew her rotten day was about to get even worse.
But, she promised herself, she wouldn’t rest until Dahlia Truewind had a day that made this one look like the happily ever after of a fairytale by comparison. She grinned to herself.
Go get her, Johnny. Bring her to me.
7
Thursday afternoon
Aroostine tossed the keys on counter by the sink and poured herself a glass of water. After a long drink, she wiped her tear- and sweat-stained face and took a deep breath. It was useless. She was never going to figure out how to tame the hulking metal beast outside.
If the Ford were a horse, she might be able to communicate with it, calm it, and work with it until they became one. Then she could wrap her arms around its neck and urge it forward. But it wasn’t a living animal. It was a machine. And it had resisted her efforts mightily.
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