one
Don’t let me down.
Owen “Ghost” Booker almost talked himself out of coming here tonight. Spent the better part of an hour sitting in his truck, engine running, telling himself this was a mistake. Getting involved meant exposure. Questions. The kind of scrutiny he’d spent three years at Valor Ridge avoiding.
But Naomi Lefthand’s words from their brief meeting at Nessie’s Place yesterday kept echoing in his head.
Don’t let me down.
When was the last time someone had expected anything from him beyond competence and silence? When was the last time he’d cared enough about disappointing someone to show up?
The only person he could think of was Walker Nash, but even that was more out of obligation than anything else.
This? This was different.
Naomi had blown into a bakery with all the fury of a hurricane, a stack of missing persons flyers in hand, full of justified anger at the failures of a system that had allowed the disappearance of a twenty-two-year-old Indigenous girl to go unnoticed.
And he’d lost his goddamn mind.
He didn’t get involved in shit like this. Yes, he agreed that the rash of disappearances, especially of young Native American girls, was disproportionate to the population size of the area. Yes, he thought they were all connected and had been quietly investigating on his own time. He’d seen the patterns when no one else seemed to care.
But he’d kept that information to himself, like everything else.
Until now.
In a moment of what could only be described as temporary insanity, he’d confessed his suspicions. She’d insisted he show up to her tribe’s council meeting, and in another moment of insanity, he’d agreed.
What the hell had he been thinking?
He’d never been the kind of man to be dazzled by a pretty woman. He’d learned that lesson the hard way, and it had cost him eight years of his life. He had no intention of making that mistake again.
But there was something about Naomi that pulled at him in a way he couldn’t explain or dismiss.
It wasn’t just her beauty, although she was striking with her warm, burnished-bronze skin, long black hair, and a body built of soft curves over steel—hips made to catch a man’s hands, strong shoulders that held the weight of her world. And those eyes… those intense dark eyes that seemed to see right through his carefully constructed walls.
Yes, she was undeniably beautiful, but it was the fierce determination radiating from her like heat from a flame that caught and held his attention. The way she spoke about the missing girls, as if they were family. The barely contained rage at a system that had failed them.
And the idea of failing Naomi like that made his skin crawl.
So here he was, killing the engine, stepping out into the chilled dusk. He instantly scanned the parking lot for threats.
Old habits. They’d probably bury him before those died.
The Bravlin County Tribal Outreach Center, colloquially known as just The Outreach, was established to bridge the gap between the local Native community and county resources, but Ghost knew better. He’d read the files, the budget allocations, the carefully worded reports that painted a picture of bureaucratic indifference dressed up as outreach. The modest brick building, two blocks off Main Street, was usually quiet and unassuming, but tonight its small parking lot was packed, with cars spilling out to park along both sides of the street. Voices carried through the open windows into the cool, early fall air.
Ghost slid through a side entrance, avoiding the crowded main doors. The meeting room was already packed with tribal elders, community advocates, town busybodies, and concerned parents. He knew all of their names, their routines, their debts and secrets—every file-worthy detail—but he’d never met any of them in person. He’d built his life in Solace on intel and distance.
Reports over relationships.
Safer that way.
Cleaner.
He noted that of all of Solace’s community leaders, Leeland Goodwin wasn’t here. Not a surprise. Although the mayor talked big about how much he cared, he showed little concern for the growing number of missing women in his town. His brother, Sheriff Hank Goodwin, was likewise absent. Also not a surprise. Hank was useless as a sheriff and vile as a human being.
At least a hundred people had turned out, more than Ghost had expected for a Tuesday night in Solace. They’d set up extra folding chairs along the walls, but those were filled too, forcing latecomers to stand at the back.
Fine by him.
