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equipment, empty coffee cans, old
     uniforms, boxes overflowing with papers. I hoped they weren’t important papers, but
     since they were stacked next to filing cabinets marked ARREST RECORDS, I had to assume they were.
    I wondered why no one cared to clean up or at least attempt to organize the mess.
     Taxpayers who complained about red tape and lost paperwork would have a field day
     in here. But the tribal police didn’t have to play by the same rules as county or
     federal cops. All areas, with the exception of the conference room, were dirty and
     jam-packed with junk. No wonder my dad had hated coming here. Now I understood Dawson’s
     frustration, too.
    By the time I’d navigated my way into the break room, I’d decided against a cup of
     coffee.
    No sign of Carsten.
    Agent Turnbull’s shoulders rested against the door frame as he spoke to Officer Spotted
     Bear. My anxiety kicked in. In the military I’d stand off to the side, at rest, waiting
     to approach a superior officer until I received acknowledgment. Protocol wasn’t defined
     within the FBI. So I hung back awkwardly, pretending to study the topographical map
     on the wall, splattered with dark splotches that looked like blood.
    “Something you need, Gunderson?” Turnbull finally asked.
    I faced him. “Just wondering what’s next on the agenda today?”
    “Nothin’. But two of the victim’s friends scheduled interviews tomorrow.”
    “Really? They volunteered?”
    Turnbull gave me the assessing stare that signaled he was in senior agent mode. “Apparently.
     Why?”
    “Didn’t you get the impression from Mrs. Elk Thunder that Arlette didn’t have any
     friends?”
    “Adults know way less about what their kids are up to than they wanna admit.”
    I couldn’t argue with that. “So are we done for the day?”
    He sipped his coffee. “Yep. Looks like I’m the one with the long commute today, hey?”
    Reverting to Indian speak. How . . . calculating of Special Agent Turnbull. Did he
     think the change in speech pattern gave the tribal cops the impression he was just
     another rez kid who’d made good? Please. He’d been raised in Flandreau. The Santee
     tribe had piles more money than the Minneconjou Sioux. “Can’t say I’m unhappy about
     being so close to home. I just needed to clarify if we’re meeting here tomorrow, and
     not at the VS offices.”
    “Far as I know. Carsten is scheduled in court and won’t be assisting us with the interviews.”
    “Thanks. Have a good evening, sir.”
    He nodded and gave me his back, returning to his conversation with Officer Spotted
     Bear.
    The wind sliced into me as I crossed the parking lot. The temperature must’ve dropped
     twenty degrees in the last few hours. Pewter clouds hung low, heavy with the threat
     of snow.
    I climbed into my new—albeit used—Ford F-150. My dad’s old truck had finally crapped
     out and had been relegated to feed-truck status on the ranch. As I zipped down the
     black ribbon of empty highway, darkness already obliterating the foggy tinge of daylight,
     I sang along with Little Big Town about living in the boondocks, realizing I didn’t
     want to go home. Dawson wouldn’t be there, which was a total fucking girly excuse
     for avoiding the place.
    I hadn’t been in Clementine’s for a month, which might have actually been a new record
     for me, not counting the months I was out of town. But I wasn’t in the mood to chitchat
     with John-John or any of the regulars I had slung drinks for during my stint as a
     bartender. Lunch had been the last thing on my mind after I’d spent the morning at
     the crime scene. Now it was close to suppertime, and I was starved.
    Once I hit the outskirts of the Eagle Ridge Township, I parked in front of the Blackbird
     Diner. If Dawson just happened to see my vehicle, maybe he’d amble in from the sheriff’s
     office. Be nice to see his face across the table from mine for a change.
    The homey aroma of warm bread and