“That’s what the feds do,” Tsosie replied, his expression stoic but his eyes revealing his frustration.“Come in, take over, look for the easy answer.”
“The ceremonial errors aren’t minor details—they’re the key to the killer’s identity.How does he not see that?”
Daniels approached as the room emptied, his federal colleagues already setting up equipment at a nearby desk.“Kari, I understand your frustration, but this is how these cases work.Bureau resources and experience take precedence.”
“Your profile is wrong,” Kari said bluntly.
“Based on what?”Daniels’s tone remained pleasant, but his words cut.“I need investigators who follow evidence, not cultural superstitions.”
This dismissal ignited something deep in Kari’s chest.“The ceremonial inconsistencies are evidence, Agent Daniels.Just not the kind you’re trained to recognize.”
“Look,” Daniels said, softening his approach, “I know your connection to the community is important to you.But don’t let it cloud your judgment.Your father taught you better than that.”
The invocation of her father felt like a deliberate provocation.“My judgment is perfectly clear,” Kari replied.“And it tells me we need to explore alternative suspect profiles.”
“All I’m asking is that you keep an open mind,” Daniels said, as if he was actually doing that himself.“Now, I’ll need your case notes and access to the department database.Agent Watkins will help transfer everything to our system.”
Kari glanced at Tsosie, an idea forming in her mind.“Detective Tsosie can help with the database access.He knows our system better than anyone.”
Tsosie caught on immediately.“It’s an older system.Takes someone who knows its quirks to navigate efficiently.”
“Perfect,” Daniels said, clearly pleased by their apparent cooperation.“And Kari, you can walk me through the case notes.”
“Actually,” Kari said, gathering her files, “I need to follow up on something time-sensitive.A connection to Harrington’s research that might establish how he selected that specific location.”
Daniels frowned.“What connection?”
“Professor Harrington consulted with scholars at Canyon State University’s anthropology department about sacred sites in the canyon,” Kari said, not entirely untruthfully.“I need to interview them before word spreads about the second murder and they start withholding information.”
Daniels seemed to weigh this, clearly reluctant to let her operate independently but unable to dispute the investigative logic.“Fine.But I want updates every hour, and full notes when you return.”
“Of course,” Kari agreed, grateful for Tsosie’s silent support as Daniels turned his attention to the database access.
As she left the conference room, Kari caught Tsosie’s subtle nod.He would keep Daniels and his agents occupied, buying her precious time to pursue their actual lead—not the academics who’d consulted with Harrington, but someone who might understand how a person could learn enough about ceremonies to mimic them without understanding them.Someone who had been in direct contact with Harrington.
Her father.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Some wounds never truly heal.They simply scab over, becoming part of who we are—tender spots we learn to protect, pain we accommodate until it feels almost normal.
Kari sat in her Jeep outside the Anthropology Building at Canyon State University, where the Museum of Northern Arizona offices were housed.The museum itself was closer to the police station (a much shorter drive), but many employees kept an office here at the university, where they often taught classes.She watched students traverse the campus paths with the carefree energy of those whose biggest concern was the next exam.Her phone buzzed—a text from Tsosie: “Daniels occupied with database migration issues.Should buy you at least 2 hours.”
She smiled at her partner’s subtle sabotage before returning to the task at hand.The business card from Harrington’s office felt strangely heavy in her jacket pocket.Her father’s name, embossed in professional typography: Dr.James Blackhorse, Cultural Anthropology Division, Museum of Northern Arizona.
Kari had rehearsed this conversation during the drive—professional, detached, focused solely on the case.She would be Detective Blackhorse, not a daughter with unresolved grievances.The problem was, her father had always seen through such pretenses, identifying the emotional currents beneath her carefully constructed facades with the same precision he’d once applied to behavioral analysis at crime scenes.
“Just get it over with,” she muttered to herself, finally exiting the vehicle.
The Anthropology Building was newer than many on campus, all sustainable materials and natural lighting.Inside, the hallways smelled of fresh carpet and coffee, a world away from the utilitarian tribal police station.Display cases lined the corridors, showcasing artifacts with meticulous labels explaining their cultural significance.
Her father’s office wasn’t hard to find—his name on a door at the end of a quiet hallway, alongside a small plaque noting his position as Research Director.Kari paused, straightened her shoulders, and knocked with more confidence than she felt.
“It’s open,” called the familiar voice.
James Blackhorse sat behind a desk of polished hardwood, surrounded by bookshelves containing equal parts academic texts and tribal artifacts.At sixty-five, he remained fit, his silver hair neatly trimmed, his button-down shirt pressed as precisely as his FBI days had demanded.Time had deepened the lines around his eyes but hadn’t diminished the intensity of his gaze—the same penetrating blue that had interrogated her childhood excuses and adolescent rebellions.
His expression shifted from concentration to surprise as he registered her presence, then settled into something more cautious.
