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“He hurt your sister.”
“Huge, climactic brawl.” Keahi’s tone is once again flippant, which is how I know this part of the story matters. “I was on the floor, Mac kicking and punching the shit out of me. Lea came running into the room. She tried to grab his arm to stop him. And he threw her across the room so hard I could hear the thud of her body hitting the wall. That was it. My jaw was fractured, my ribs broken, but I didn’t care. I went after him with everything I had while screaming at Lea to run. I heard her get up. I thought I saw her flee from the room. Then Mac was on his feet and I was on my back and I don’t remember much after that. When I regained consciousness, I was in the hospital, most of my body covered in bandages and my auntie holding my hand.”
Keahi’s breathing has grown ragged. She seems to realize it, draws in a deep lungful, then slowly lets it out. Anyone else, I would feel compelled to touch their arm, offer comfort. In this case, I don’t want to lose the hand I’m pretty sure she’d snap off at the wrist.
“I asked about Lea,” Keahi continues now. “I begged my aunt to find her. She went straight to Mac’s house and demanded to see her niece. Mac denied it all. Claimed he hadn’t seen Lea since the night I physically attacked him. Most likely she’d run away, terrified of her violent older sister, and instead of harassing him, my auntie should be thanking him for not pressing charges against me. Given the damage to his face… My auntie waited outside the gates, catching the grounds crew as they were leaving. They swore they hadn’t seen Lea. As they were locals, she believed them, even though she couldn’t believe Mac.
“After that, my cousins scoured the city, searching for Lea. But Honolulu is big, and there’s only so much ground they could cover.”
“Did they go to the police?”
“The police.” Keahi already sounds disgusted. “Do you know how many native Hawaiian girls disappear each year? Versus how many they bother to look for, let alone find?”
“No one knows,” Twanow murmurs, glancing over at me. “Federal studies gather data on Native Americans and Alaska Natives, but not Indigenous Hawaiians, as they don’t have tribal lands that fall under federal jurisdiction. What we know from the populations that are tracked—one report found that of the fifty-seven hundred missing and murdered Indigenous girls, only a little over a hundred show up in the Justice Department database. And in Hawaii, which is a major hub for sex trafficking, those numbers are probably even worse.”
I’d like to say I’m surprised, but I’m not. All the cases I’ve worked these past dozen years have been filled with statistics just as depressing as these.
“You never found your sister.” I look at Keahi.
“Once I was out of the hospital, I tried everything. Days and nights, nights and days, flashing her photo to anyone who would look, pleading for information. I even broke into Mac’s villa. Her room was empty. Like she’d never been there. Like she’d never existed at all.”
Keahi looks away, a muscle twitching in her jaw. “I spent two years on the island, living off my auntie’s generosity while I searched for my sister. In the end, even my auntie told me it was time to let go. Lea was most likely dead. I had to accept that.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Lea disappeared almost a dozen years ago. She was five years old. Only five years old.”
I understand. “After you gave up the search, you returned to Texas? Your father?”
“What choice did I have? I couldn’t stay in Hawaii forever. My auntie had done enough, and what had I given her in return? I had no job, no skills, no formal education. So that was that. I came home. Whatever my daddy did now, at least I deserved it.”
I take a deep breath, my mind whirring through the story of Keahi’s life, trying to make the pieces fit. “All right. Your sister had disappeared, you return home and spend, what, the next three years taking out your rage on other men? Which may or may not have included your father?”
Twanow glares at me.
“He happened to die shortly after I returned to the homestead,” Keahi retorts blithely.
Ahh, here is the murderess I’ve come to know and not love. “You never returned to Hawaii, followed up with your auntie, cousins, whomever?”
“No.”
“But now, three weeks before your execution, you’re suddenly overcome with the need to locate your baby sister?”
“I’ve always been overcome with the need to save Lea. I just assumed it was no longer possible.”
Finally, I get it. “Something changed. You have a lead on her, a reason to believe she’s still alive?”
“I received a letter, handwritten by her, telling me she still loves me.”
“How do you know it’s her handwriting? You last saw her when she was five.”
“I know.”
I sigh heavily. I’ve not had enough sleep for such dramatics. “Have you given this letter to the police, notified Hawaiian authorities?”
“They won’t help.”
“Because she’s Native Hawaiian? I think an actual note from a missing girl would get their attention.”
