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couple of things stood out to me:
    (1) Arlette didn’t have her cell phone on her person when she disappeared. What I
     knew of teens? They always had their cell within reach. The fact that Arlette’s phone was in her locker made
     me wonder if the killer had put it back after the fact.
    (2) Arlette’s status as the niece of the new tribal president made her a higher-profile
     victim. Arlette’s murder could’ve been a calculated move aimed at Latimer Elk Thunder
     in an attempt to distract him from tribal business. I put a question mark after that.
    (3) But if the distraction angle was the intent, why wasn’t the tribal president here
     holding his wife’s hand? According to the tribal cops, he’dgone back to work at tribal headquarters immediately after leaving the crime scene.
     Arlette’s murder hadn’t seemed to cause more than a hiccup in his normal schedule.
    (4) Why weren’t any of Triscell’s friends or other family members with her, lending
     support in her husband’s absence? In a community this small, even a fair-weather friend
     would offer to stand by her, if only for the opportunity to get the inside scoop for
     gossip.
    Turnbull’s interview technique resembled a disorganized fishing expedition. I’d had
     my fill of his borderline bullying tactics when I saw fresh tears rolling down Triscell’s
     cheeks.
    Carsten jumped in before I did. “Enough, Agent Turnbull. Mrs. Elk Thunder needs a
     break. Let her go home. She’s been extremely helpful.”
    Turnbull offered an imperious “A word, Miz McGillis?” and stood. He probably intended
     to blister her ear about undermining his leadership role. He thanked Triscell Elk
     Thunder for her cooperation. Then he ushered Carsten and the others from the room,
     leaving me alone with her.
    A sigh echoed to me. I figured she wouldn’t stick around, but I felt her stare as
     I feigned concentration on shuffling and reshuffling the papers in front of me like
     a Deadwood poker dealer.
    “You’ve been through this before.” She paused and clarified, “On the civilian side,
     not as an FBI agent.”
    Astute. I nodded.
    “With who?”
    “My nephew. Levi Arpel.”
    “I remember that. Happened about a year and a half ago?”
    “Sixteen months.” Hard not to keep track. Sometimes it felt as if that brutal day
     had been yesterday; other times it seemed years had passed since I’d found him.
    “That’s right. You shot the guy who did it. Leo . . . what’s his face. The hippie
     teacher.”
    I almost corrected her—it was Theo—but refrained because I refused to speak the man’s
     name. Still, I tensed. I suspected her next question would be to ask if killing him
     had offered me any closure.
    Goddammit. I did not want to justify my act of self-defense, which had ended Theo’s
     life, or to wait for her to ask about some magical coping mechanisms for grief after
     a violent death. That fit into Carsten’s job description as VS, not mine.
    I pushed back from the conference table, focused on sliding all my papers into a manila
     folder. “You’re free to go, Mrs. Elk Thunder.”
    “Wait, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. I just . . .” She sighed. “I feel guilty. Arlette
     had changed in the last month, and I just went about my own life, assuming she was
     just being a teenage girl. I should’ve tried harder, and I have to live with that.”
    Big mistake looking at her. Her dark brown eyes brimmed. I softened my tone. “We will
     do everything we can to find out who did this to Arlette.”
    “FBI party line.” She sniffed.
    I rather pointedly held the door open for her. After she sailed through it, I pressed
     my back against the wall, waiting three full minutes before I ventured out of the
     room.
    The building, constructed in the 1950s, had weathered tornados, an attempted burning,
     and vandalism—the aftereffects still lingered inside, years later. The place was a
     disaster. Shit was piled everywhere: broken office