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allowed to slide?”
    “Because it’s easier to ignore it than admitting one of your relatives is capable
     of raping a two-year-old. Or that burning a six-year-old with a cigarette is an acceptable
     form of discipline. Or sexually assaulting an eight-year-old with beer bottles and
     kitchen utensils is a form of entertainment. And those I mentioned? They’re not the
     worst cases.”
    Bile rose, and I swallowed it down with a gulp of water. “How do you know that?”
    “I’ve lived here my whole life. I’ve watched how no jobs, no purpose, and too much
     alcohol affect the tribe.”
    “What if I can make a difference?”
    Rollie raised his eyes to mine. “Because you’ve got a dab of Indian blood?”
    I blinked at him. That was more than a little snarky coming from the man who’d encouraged
     me to enroll in the tribe about eight months ago.
    “Besides, you can’t make a difference. No one can. Watch yourself, Mercy, when you
     go digging into this bad stuff. There’s always someone wantin’ to keep their sick
     little secrets. There’s always someone wantin’ to prove they’re smarter than you.”
    “Can you stop talking in riddles for one damn minute?”
    He picked at the toasted meringue. As I formulated my next question, Rollie demanded,
     “Did Latimer bring in the feds right away when she went missin’?”
    “Why?”
    “’Cause he’ll milk this tragedy for all it’s worth, even though he really don’t give
     a damn about that girl.”
    “No love lost between you and the tribal president?”
    “He’s a self-serving prick who reeks of false piety.”
    Harsh. “That doesn’t seem to be the general attitude on the rez. People have great
     hopes he’ll implement changes.”
    “Two words that mean nothin’ in politics: hope and change. Especially not when it
     comes to his ideas.”
    That didn’t sound like differing philosophies; it sounded personal. “How long have
     you known Latimer Elk Thunder?”
    “Since before he became a white man in Indian skin.”
    For Rollie that was an unforgivable offense—in men, anyway. “Are you guys business
     rivals or something?”
    “Since he owns the only gas station on the rez, he ain’t got no rivals.”
    “So were you rivals over a woman? You said some nasty stuff about my dad because you
     believe he stole my mother from you.”
    He harrumphed and ate another bite of his pie.
    “So you weren’t in love with his wife and she threw you over for Latimer?” I joked.
    “Not hardly. I ain’t ever been impressed with her, either. Though she’sawful damn impressed with herself.” His black eyes met mine. “How was the niece killed?”
    That was an abrupt subject change. “I’m not at liberty to disclose that information.”
    “Was she brutalized before her body was discarded like an unwanted animal? Or after,
     at the dump site? I’m betting after.”
    “Who told you this?”
    He clammed up when Mitzi refilled his coffee.
    “How did you know?” Dammit. I shouldn’t have let that slip. “Are you having some kind
     of visions like John-John?” I demanded.
    Rollie snorted. “If I did, I sure wouldn’t tell nobody.”
    “Then why are you telling me this?”
    He shoveled in a bite of white fluff. Then pointed his fork at me. “I didn’t tell
     you nothin’. I hazarded a guess .”
    Outwardly, I managed a bored look. Inwardly, I imagined snatching away his pie.
    “Ain’t ya gonna pull that high-handed fed crap and threaten to haul me in if I don’t
     cooperate?”
    I offered a half shrug. “You haven’t actually given me any useful information, Rollie.
     You’re just guessing, right?”
    “Guess you don’t know that Arlette Shooting Star ain’t the first dead girl to show
     up around here, and I doubt she’ll be the last.”
    My jaw nearly hit the table.
    Before I could formulate a response, he was gone.

3
    O n the drive home I couldn’t help but wonder what Rollie’s angle was. How could the
     FBI not be aware of