“People do that,” Goodwin said. “Especially restless kids from difficult backgrounds.”
The dismissal of Mary Rose—of all her potential, all her dreams—as just another “troubled” Native kid who’d run off stoked a familiar anger in Naomi’s chest. It was the same attitude she’d faced eleven years ago when begging the sheriff’s department to take her cousin’s disappearance seriously.
“We’ve found forensic evidence linking the Charlo case to the location where Ms. Lefthand was held,” Brandt said, his calm voice a contrast to the tension building in the room. “DNA that suggests Mary Rose Charlo was in that barn at some point.”
For the first time, Goodwin looked genuinely surprised. His eyes narrowed. “That’s impossible. That property wasn’t evenin use eleven years ago. It was abandoned after the Mitchells foreclosed in ’08.”
“The DNA evidence we’ve recovered suggests multiple victims over an extended period of time.”
Goodwin’s jaw tightened. “I’d like to see this evidence. And the chain of custody paperwork.”
“Of course,” Brandt said. “Once our lab work is complete, we’ll share all findings with local law enforcement. In the meantime, we’re requesting access to your case files on all missing persons reports involving women between the ages of fifteen and thirty from the last fifteen years.”
“That’s a fishing expedition,” Goodwin said flatly. “And one that would tie up my department’s resources for weeks.”
“We can provide personnel to help with the review,” Brandt offered. “And we’re particularly interested in cases involving Native women, which may help narrow the scope.”
Goodwin leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “Marshal Brandt, I appreciate your concern, but let’s be clear—we don’t have a human trafficking ring operating in Solace. What we have is a series of unfortunate but unrelated incidents, some of which involve substance abuse, some involve domestic situations, and yes, some involve young people making bad choices.”
“Like Leelee Padilla?” Naomi asked quietly. “What bad choice did she make, Sheriff? Working late at the casino? Walking to her car alone?”
“Ms. Lefthand,” Goodwin’s voice cooled several degrees. “I understand you have a personal connection to these cases, but your emotions are clouding your judgment. And frankly, your history with the FBI doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in your objectivity.”
“My history?”
“Your... departure from the Bureau.” His smile was sharp, knowing. “We do our homework in Solace. I know you left under less than ideal circumstances after pushing conspiracy theories about missing persons cases that your own superiors found unsupported by evidence.”
The jab found its mark, opening old wounds Naomi had thought long healed. She’d left the FBI after repeatedly being told to drop her investigation into patterns of disappearances across tribal lands. Her supervisors had called her obsessed, said she was seeing connections where none existed. In the end, she’d walked away rather than abandon the search for truth.
And now, here was Goodwin, using that same history to discredit her.
“Sheriff,” Brandt’s voice cut through the tension, cool and precise as a scalpel. “This task force operates with the full authority of the Department of Justice. We’re not asking for your permission to investigate crimes that fall under federal jurisdiction—we’re extending the courtesy of coordination. I suggest you take advantage of it.”
Goodwin’s face darkened. “I don’t appreciate threats, Marshal.”
“It wasn’t a threat. It was a statement of fact.” Brandt closed his briefcase with a decisive click. “We’ll be operating in your jurisdiction for the foreseeable future. Your cooperation would make things smoother for everyone involved, but it’s not required.”
“This is my county,” Goodwin said, rising to his feet. “These are my people. And I won’t have federal agents swooping in and stirring up panic over a nonexistent threat.”
Naomi stood as well, ignoring the twinge in her ribs. “These women aren’t facing a ‘nonexistent threat,’ Sheriff, and their families deserve answers. And if you won’t help find those answers, we will.”
“Always the crusader,” Goodwin said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Just like your cousin. Some people don’t know when to stop pushing.”
The comparison to Mary Rose sent a chill down Naomi’s spine. Was it a threat? A warning? Or just another attempt to rattle her? She couldn’t tell, and that uncertainty was more unsettling than outright hostility.
“Thank you for your time,” Brandt said, his hand at Naomi’s elbow guiding her toward the door. “We’ll be in touch about those case files.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Goodwin called after them.
They walked through the bullpen in silence, the deputies watching with undisguised curiosity. Only when they were outside, standing beside Brandt’s SUV in the bright Montana sunshine, did Naomi let out the breath she’d been holding.
“Well, that was productive,” she muttered.
Brandt glanced back at the sheriff’s office, his dark eyes assessing. “Actually, it was. More than you might think.”
“How do you figure? He all but told us to go to hell.”
“He did.” Brandt unlocked the vehicle but made no move to get in. “But he also revealed something important: he’s scared. A man that confident, that entrenched in his power, doesn’t get defensive unless he feels threatened.”
