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Tsosie nodded.“After I talk to his family.And Blackhorse?”

“Yeah?”

“When you meet with your father, remember whose case this is.”His expression remained neutral, but his meaning was clear.The FBI, even retired FBI, had a way of taking over.

“Trust me, I know exactly whose case this is,” Kari said.“Mine.”

As she drove away from the visitor center, she replayed the interview in her mind.Natoni’s alibi seemed solid, his reactions authentic.His knowledge of ceremonial practices made sense, given his training as a healer.Most importantly, his anger had been directed at Harrington’s disrespect, not at the man himself.

No, Natoni Begay didn’t fit the profile of their killer.But he knew something—something about Monster’s Hand, about the Walking Earth, about what might have happened to Mark Harrington on that moonlit night.

The question was whether that knowledge was rooted in ancient superstition or modern reality.And whether the distinction even mattered when it came to murder.

CHAPTER SIX

The dead spoke in silence.

It was an old homicide detective’s adage, one Kari’s trainers in Phoenix had repeated often.Tonight, Mark Harrington’s silence was deafening.

Kari sat at her mother’s kitchen table, case notes spread before her, a half-eaten sandwich pushed to one side.The digital clock on the microwave read 9:42 PM.She’d been reviewing evidence for hours, but clarity remained elusive.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Tsosie: “Natoni’s alibi checks out.Multiple witnesses confirm he was at his family home preparing for ceremony until midnight.”

She texted back a quick acknowledgment, then set her phone aside.Another lead diminished.The investigation felt like trying to grasp smoke—every time she thought she had something solid, it dissipated.

Kari pressed her palms against her eyes, the day’s fatigue finally catching up with her.The drive back from the visitor center, the hours of review, the lingering headache from too much coffee and too little food—all of it was taking a toll.She knew she should keep working, but her focus was slipping.Mistakes happened when detectives pushed beyond exhaustion.She’d seen it too many times in Phoenix.

She gathered her notes into a neat stack, tucking them into her case folder.There was something she needed more than another hour of staring at the same information.She needed perspective.She needed her grandmother.

Kari checked her watch.Late, but not too late for Ruth, who had always been a night owl.She grabbed her keys and jacket, locking the house behind her.

The drive to her grandmother’s small house took fifteen minutes, the last half-mile along an unpaved road that wound between scattered piñon pines.A single light burned in the front window, warm against the desert darkness.

Kari knocked lightly before using her key.“Shimásání?It’s me.”

Ruth sat in her favorite chair near the woodstove, a blanket across her lap despite the lingering day’s heat.She was weaving—thin, nimble fingers working threads through a small loom.She didn’t look up as Kari entered.

“You brought your troubles with you,” Ruth said.“I can hear them in your step.”

Kari smiled despite herself.Her grandmother’s perception had always been unnervingly accurate.“Long day,” she said, taking a seat on the worn sofa across from Ruth.

“Not just long.Heavy.”Ruth’s fingers continued their rhythmic work.“The dead one.The professor.That’s what weighs on you.”

It wasn’t a question.Kari didn’t bother asking how Ruth knew about Harrington.News traveled like wind on the reservation, especially news about white outsiders who died in sacred places.

“I can’t discuss the case,” Kari said automatically.

Ruth made a small sound, something between amusement and dismissal.“You came here at night with that shadow on your face.You didn’t come to not talk about it.”

The logic was irrefutable.Kari leaned back, suddenly aware of just how tired she was.“Something’s not right about this one, Shimásání.”

“The spirits could have told you that,” Ruth said.“No need for police badges or fancy cameras.”

Kari watched her grandmother’s hands—wrinkled but strong, the hands that had taught her to weave, to identify plants, to form the words of prayers she’d later forgotten.The same hands that had arranged her mother’s hair for burial just one month ago.

“He was positioned strangely,” Kari said, the words coming before she could stop them.“After death.Facing east, arms at his sides, palms up.Herbs placed around the body—sage, cedar, globemallow, according to Natoni Begay.”

Ruth’s fingers stilled on the loom.She looked up, her dark eyes sharp in her lined face.“Someone tried to contain it.”

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