He found a spot near the corner, where the shadow of an overhead projector gave him a sliver of darkness. Perfect vantage point—he could see everyone, and almost no one would notice him.
Three exits.
Eighty-two people.
Eight potential threats based on body language alone.
He recognized Naomi’s grandmother, Ava Charlo, sitting near the front. She was hard to miss in her sequined vest, which shone like a disco ball whenever she moved. Her grandson, Julius—Naomi’s cousin—sat beside her to the right in his Game Warden uniform, and to her left sat the Padilla family.
And there was Naomi.
She stood at the front of the room, arms folded across her chest, chin lifted as if daring anyone to dismiss her as “just another angry woman.” The overhead light turned her black hair blue at the edges, her tight braids pulled back as if she were expecting a physical fight. She wore a white T-shirt and a canvas jacket over dark jeans, with scuffed, practical boots. Ghost caught a flash of the MMIW pin on her collar. No other jewelry, no makeup. He liked that about her.
She had no notes, no PowerPoint, just a stack of missing person flyers in one hand and that fierce look in her eyes.
She didn’t see him. Not at first.
Good.
He exhaled and hugged the wall just inside the door. Two tribal officers lingered by the coffee table, talking in low voices.
“Little Rabbit’s got herself worked up again,” one of the officers said, low enough that no one else could hear. Ghost recognized him as Mitch Deveraux, a tribal officer who’d been with the department for fifteen years. Mediocre record, three excessive force complaints, and a gambling habit that had put him underwater twice.
“Always running from shadows,” the second officer agreed with a chuckle. Charlie Whiteclaw. Younger, squeaky clean record, but Ghost had seen him drinking on duty more than once. “Just like when we were kids. Remember when she thought she saw someone following her home from school? Had the whole res looking for a stalker that didn’t exist.”
“FBI training didn’t fix what’s broken in her head,” Deveraux muttered. “She’s been jumpy since her cousin went missing. Now she’s seeing patterns that aren’t there, stirring up trouble.”
As the officers wandered away, Ghost realized his fingers had curled into fists at his side and forced himself to relax. It wasn’t any of his concern what others thought of Naomi.
At the back, a pair of county officials leaned on the snack table, already bored.
“Let’s hope this doesn’t drag on all night,” one muttered. “The Goodwins are already pissed we’re entertaining this stuff, and the tribe doesn’t need trouble with them.”
Did Naomi know how extremely unpopular she was with this crowd?
Yes. Judging by the way she held her head high as she took the stage, she knew, and she was trying desperately to keep her nerves from showing.
Ava winked at Naomi as she passed. “You tell them all how it is, my Little Rabbit.”
Naomi’s shoulders relaxed fractionally, and she faced the room, turning her back to the council members, who sat at a long table on the stage, their expressions ranging from polite interest to barely concealed impatience. She pinned every person with that same unblinking stare she’d given Ghost yesterday. She didn’t bother with introductions or small talk. Just lifted the flyer.
“This is Leila Padilla,” she said. No microphone needed—the room was dead quiet and her voice carried. “Known as Leeleeby her family and friends. Twenty-two years old. Works at the casino with many of you to put herself through cosmetology school. She’s been missing four days. Despite the family’s pleas, no BOLOs have been issued by either tribal police or the county sheriff. There have been no search parties. No press coverage. Why?”
The silence was uncomfortable.
“Most of you know her family.” She nodded toward Carina and Eddie Padilla in the front row beside Ava. Leelee’s mother was barely holding it together while her husband comforted her. Beside them, Eddie’s younger brother, Sampson, looked like he wanted to put his fist through a wall.
“They’re a good family,” Naomi continued. “Solid community members. Carina grew up here. Eddie and Sampson have lived here for years and have put money back into our community with Padilla Auto. The Padillas have raised their daughters alongside your children. So why have all of you already written Leelee off as another runaway?”
A murmur went through the crowd, gaining momentum the longer it went on.
The moderator banged a gavel on the battered wooden table. “Let’s come to order, please.”
The voices faded, but the attitude didn’t. A few men in the back row folded their arms, and a woman to his right whispered something to her friend, who nodded vigorously. A few council members shuffled papers, pretending to study documents. One of them—Daniel Bigcrane, if Ghost's memory served—kept checking his phone.
Naomi was losing them.
Ghost had seen enough interrogations to recognize the signs. She was coming at this too directly, and they were shutting down. The facts wouldn't matter if they'd already decided not to listen.
