Looking for Smoke, page 33
And barely visible on the top shelf was a flip phone and the black grip of a pistol.
He was going to shoot her.
As he stood in the corner of the barn, some of the smugness melted off his face, but his eyes held steady on hers. She could see the thoughts racing. He’d kill her in a second. Just like Rayanne and Samantha. “Easy,” he whispered.
She forced her voice to sound calmer than she felt. “That’s the backpack Samantha had.”
He shook his head, ready to spit another lie.
She raised the rifle higher; the fury heating her blood begged for her to shoot. He was a murderer. She knew it. She nodded toward the bags of drugs. “Why?”
He looked at his feet and dug his fingers into his hair. She could see the panic curling his muscles until all of a sudden, that cocky slant to his face returned. “Have you ever had everything you wanted?”
She kept her mouth shut. A bird screeched outside, high and sharp.
“My dad couldn’t give us anything. He worked himself to death on this ranch, and what did he have to show for it? Nothing. We barely got by. He left me with nothing but problems.” He laughed breathlessly, sweat beading on his forehead.
She kept her aim trained on his chest but positioned her finger above the trigger again.
“I found my own way to provide. I found a way to have everything. I did that.” He jutted a finger to his chest.
She should’ve guessed he was desperate enough to fall into that trap, but she knew those girls weren’t anywhere near that life. She shook her head. “What’s any of this got to do with those girls?”
“I never wanted to do it, you know. I’m not a killer.” The words tumbled out of his mouth. “But Rayanne stuck her nose where it didn’t belong. She thought she could pull one over on me.”
“What are you talking about?”
He cocked his head. “She saw a . . . transaction. A massive one. When all was said and done, I turned my back for a second, and then my bag and the product inside it were gone.”
He wasn’t making any sense.
“Rayanne swiped it. She almost got away with it too, but I saw her car turning the corner a minute later.”
That wasn’t the Rayanne she knew. “She wouldn’t do that.”
“She did.” He laughed bitterly. “She stole a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of drugs from me. That little piss probably didn’t even know it.”
She’d never understand that kind of sick greed. “And you killed her for it?”
“I was gonna get the stuff back from her.” Anger flared in his voice. “But she told me she flushed it all.” He raked a hand down his face. “Flushed a hundred grand.”
“You killed her because of money?” It took everything in her to keep her finger frozen in place.
His words squeezed out quicker. “She crossed me. And even if I let good-girl Rayanne get away with it, she would’ve ratted me out. And my supplier. He’d rather I die than be arrested. He told me to take care of it. He hates loose ends. I’m lucky he didn’t blow out my brains himself for her stupid stunt.” He paced a tight line in the corner, as her aim tracked him the whole time.
She knew better than anyone how much Rayanne hated drugs. She hated that they took her mom away and stole part of her childhood. Hated how they changed people. She hated them so much she did something stupid and put her own life in danger. But this wasn’t on her. “You’re a selfish pig.”
“She should’ve stayed out of it.” His voice was cold.
“And what did Samantha do to deserve your hands on her?”
“That’s the funny thing.” To his credit, there wasn’t a lick of humor in his tone. “Turns out Rayanne didn’t flush anything. Somehow Samantha got all of it . . . because there she was at the powwow, right in front of my table, carrying my own backpack. The one Rayanne stole.”
The way his cheeks pulled back in disdain brought her finger closer to the trigger.
“I saw her eyeing Youngbull like she was nervous he’d search that bag. She’d been helping herself to it for three months. Or maybe she’d been selling my product. Nobody gets away with that. If my guy found out those bags and those pills were on the streets after all that . . . after I said I took care of the loose ends . . . I’d be dead. I was already walking on thin ice.” He stopped pacing and stood eerily still. “I couldn’t plan that one, but I managed. You squeeze hard enough . . . it doesn’t take long.”
Her own throat seized at his words. She could hardly stand to look at him. “You killed her for that without a second thought?” Her voice fried with hatred. “How’d you even know anything was in there?” He was even more sick and twisted than she’d thought. The money and power had completely soured his head. Any good had long bled out of him.
“It’s—it’s what had to be done!” He threw his hands out. “It’s not like I enjoyed it. You don’t just take a hundred grand from someone. Not in this world.”
She’d heard enough to know there was no talking any sense into him. He believed in the rules of his sick, backward world.
“She didn’t know it was mine until I grabbed her. She admitted she almost sold it a few times because she needed the money so bad, but she brought it to the powwow to turn it in. She said that’s why she was looking at Youngbull; she was on her way to give him the bag when she got called for the giveaway, then before she could hand it to him afterward, I pulled everyone over. She was going to tell him she found the bag there and nobody would ever know she had it for so long. But I knew. She begged me to take it back and let her go and she’d keep her mouth shut. I didn’t believe any of that, though. Desperate users will say anything.”
Unease thrummed through her. She couldn’t help but wonder if Samantha had come forward sooner, maybe they could’ve traced the drugs and Rayanne’s disappearance to Jason. Maybe they’d have found her body sooner. And Samantha could’ve saved her own life.
“But I assumed wrong. Not a single ounce was missing.” The lack of remorse in his words said more than anything else.
She shifted her weight, creaking the old wood floor. Neither girl used any. A bit of relief trickled into her head, but she knew it didn’t matter one bit either way. That piece of garbage killed them anyway. And he thought he could get away with it. “You’d really let Brody take the fall for you? Does he even know about your business?”
“He’d be an idiot if he didn’t have some idea, but he was smart enough to keep his nose out of it. He’d only make things messier for me.” His fists clenched at his sides.
“Brody’s not going to keep his mouth shut for you.” He was a fool if he really believed that. She knew Brody had been protecting him all this time, but she’d always thought that kid was weak-minded. There was no way he wouldn’t give up everything when it was him in the corner. She’d bet anything that he’d fold at the drop of a hat. “You’re not getting away with any of this.”
She’d make sure of that.
“I will.” Jason stared at the barrel of the rifle, but there was no fear in his eyes. “That morning in April, I took Rayanne’s jacket and messenger bag. I hid the bag in Brody’s room and let him plant the jacket in Eli’s dad’s truck. Or so he thought.” Pride dripped out of his mouth. It was all an elaborate game, one he thought he was winning. “Brody was always meant to take the fall if things got screwed up. He can sing all he likes. He’ll never turn it on me.”
“That’s your baby brother . . . the kid you came home to take care of. You’d let Brody be framed for murder . . . over drugs?”
“You still don’t get it. I—I have to.” Somewhere deep down he knew it was wrong. Part of him had to remember why he wanted to raise Brody instead of his mom. Maybe that’s what started this all. He was desperate enough for money, for a solution. Maybe at first he had Brody’s best interests in mind. Maybe he loved him.
His gaze hardened, and his body stilled. “I can’t just back out. It’s him or me. Call it self-preservation.”
If he did break into this dark world for Brody, it wasn’t the case anymore. The only person who mattered to him now was himself.
It was exactly what her gut told her. Jason would find a way out of this. Real justice wouldn’t be served. And it was all for drugs. For the poison he was bringing to her tribe. And the most sickening part was, he thought it was worth it. Even with a gun aimed at his heart, he still thought it was worth it.
“You’d kill innocent girls and betray your own brother over money.” She could taste acid in her mouth, begging to be spat at his face. “Your mom left your family for money. You destroyed yours for it. Your dad would be disgusted with you. I won’t let Brody take all the blame.”
Jason’s lips twisted into something ugly.
She steadied the rifle with one hand and pulled out her phone, ready to dial 911.
“Brody deserves just as much blame.”
Her finger hovered over the numbers.
“After I slammed Rayanne’s head into my truck and strangled her, she still held on.”
She froze, chest tight with dread at the violent image.
“She should’ve been dead, but apparently, she was a fighter. Brody’s the one who smothered her to death. That was all him.”
Her grip slackened. Loren was still in Brody’s house, looking through his things. Brody—a killer. She hadn’t prepared for that—she didn’t know he was capable of that. She assumed it was all Jason; she just needed Loren to find any bit of evidence from Brody’s phone or room to make her certain. And she needed her to get Jason alone. Loren wasn’t supposed to be in danger. She was supposed to be safe. That was the plan—the plan she was desperate enough to believe would work.
What would Brody do if he caught Loren?
In the half second her focus drifted, Jason snatched an axe from the concrete floor. In a single beat of her heart, he was swinging the blade toward her, dried blood marring its sharp edge.
She dropped her phone and pulled the trigger.
The butt rammed into her shoulder as Jason stumbled backward. The axe slipped from his fingers in his shock, clanging at her feet. The blast made her ears ring. Red bloomed on Jason’s chest. He collapsed into the corner, limbs trembling.
Her whole body went numb, frozen in place, panic clogging her thoughts. What had she done? What had he made her do? The rifle’s weight bore down on her. This was not part of her plan, but she reminded herself it’s what he deserved. He had brought it on himself.
She forced herself to step over the axe and walk through the heavy, metallic scent of the gunshot toward Jason. “You’re a disgrace.”
He stared at her, wide-eyed, as his chest jerked up and down in undefined breaths. Blood seeped from his mouth. She pulled the bolt up and back, ejecting the spent casing, and shoved it back into place, pushing another round into the chamber. Gun raised, she watched him for another moment. Then he was still. His eyes still stared, but they drained of focus. His chest stopped jerking.
Hers buzzed with adrenaline.
She believed every selfish, sick word he said. After Brody ruined his life for his brother, Jason would repay him by washing his hands of it all. Brody killed for him, and he’d planned a way to get off scot-free from the very beginning. All for his precious money and pathetic drug business. His fool of a brother made it easy.
Not anymore.
She lowered the rifle and picked up the spent casing, still warm to her touch. She rolled the brass in her fingers, thoughts racing, then shoved it into her pocket. She’d make sure Brody would pay for his part in it. He’d be paying his whole life.
But Jason got the ultimate punishment. He deserved it. If she didn’t shoot him, he was going to kill her, without a doubt, but even so . . . she had to admit she wanted to. Her anger and hate burned so hot it felt good to release it. And maybe she’d go to hell for that. She’d just killed a man, but at least she knew Loren and other girls would be free of him. He wouldn’t hurt anyone else.
After all, she did tell her granddaughter Loren she’d go to hell and back defending her. She just didn’t know she’d be taking somebody else there with her.
A Note from the Author
When the characters in Looking for Smoke slipped into my head fully formed, begging me to tell their story, I was scared I wouldn’t be able to do it justice. Their journey would tackle the very real issue of Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women, the toll of which is devastating. The numbers speak for themselves: 84 percent of Native women have experienced violence and 56 percent have experienced sexual violence. The murder rate of Native women is three times more than that of white women, and in some locations, the rate is more than ten times the national average.
In writing the story of a group of teenagers grappling with the disappearance and murder of their classmates, I hoped to bring readers’ attention to these startling statistics and, more importantly, to the emotional reality of the families and community members impacted by this epidemic. It’s a sensitive issue that needs a careful hand when weaving it into a fictional story. I didn’t want to write anything that would trivialize the real cases or sensationalize the heavy pain so many Natives are enduring. I wanted to shed a light on the issue while creating characters that would stick with readers long after the book ends.
I wanted to send a message that is not easily forgotten.
But I was afraid I wasn’t qualified enough to pull it off. Or talented enough. Or Blackfeet enough. I worried that because I’m bicultural and grew up off the reservation, my words wouldn’t be as valid. The significance of this story, and the question of whether I was the right person to tell it, weighed on me. It brought out my doubts, much like Mara’s move to the Blackfeet reservation brings out hers. Still, I knew this was a story that needed to be told, so I discussed it with my dad. He listened patiently to all my concerns, then shut down my doubts and said something I’ll always remember: “You’re Blackfeet, my girl. Nobody can take that from you.”
So I wrote it. I dug into my own experiences and my family’s lives, bringing as much authenticity to these pages as I could. I filled them with childhood memories and family stories. I borrowed wisdom and expertise from loved ones. I honored my family by using many of their names throughout, including First Kill, Big Crow, and the very title of this book, Looking For Smoke, which is the name of my fifth great-grandfather. I even put my dad’s guiding reassurance to me into a scene with Eli and Mara.
While I tried my hardest to create an authentic cast and setting, I did take creative license for the sake of the story. I do not attempt to claim this is an accurate representation of every Blackfeet’s experience, and it is certainly not intended to be a representation of the hundreds of other tribes across the US, but I do hope each reader can see a piece of themselves somewhere in this book.
These characters may be fictional, but their emotions are real. Their desire for belonging, commitment to family, and respect for community are things we all feel. The joy and pride they have for each other and for their culture is powerfully accurate. Their heartache is real too. The profound sense of loss, anger, sadness, and thirst for justice is true of countless Natives who want their voices heard. They want awareness, support, and outrage.
I wanted to write a book about Native teens because I wanted to bring more Native representation into popular media. We see too many stories of Natives in past tense, but we’re still here, and we deserve to see ourselves in characters in the contemporary lens. But as I wrote this book, it became equally important to me to lift these particular voices, to draw attention to the epidemic of Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women. These Native women deserve better, and my heart is with them.
Throughout this story, I drew inspiration from the powerful women in my own life who have carried themselves and their families through pain, betrayal, and loss, and come out stronger on the other side.
Like Loren’s grandmother Geraldine says, we are a resilient people. I have seen that despite all odds, we can thrive.
And we deserve to.
Learn more about the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women issue by visiting the hashtags #MMIW, #MMIWG, #MMIWG2S, and #NoMoreStolenSisters, or visit my author website, kacobell.com, to find information, resources, and ways to donate to the cause.
Acknowledgments
There are so many people who helped make Looking for Smoke a reality. I could fill another novel detailing the support I’ve been given on this journey, but I’ll try to keep it short. A million thank-yous:
To my husband, who always believes in me and my abilities, even when I don’t. I love you.
To my mom, who will read anything I write. You helped me brainstorm my way out of many fictional binds, and it was you who inspired me to start writing in the first place.
To my dad, who continually teaches me. I got my creativity and cultural pride from you. Thank you for walking with me through this whole process.
To my agent, Pete Knapp. I’m now officially an author, and still I can’t find enough words to explain just how thankful I am to have you in my corner. The care you take with your clients and our books is unmatched. You have been Looking for Smoke’s biggest champion, and I couldn’t have done this without you. And thanks to Stuti Telidevara, Kat Toolan, Danielle Barthel, and the rest of the team at Park & Fine for all the time and hard work you’ve put in on my behalf.
To my editor, Rosemary Brosnan, for believing in this story and making the perfect home for it at Heartdrum. Thank you to the many other team members at HarperCollins who made this possible, including Cynthia Leitch Smith, Liate Stehlik, Suzanne Murphy, Kerry Moynagh and the sales team, Sean Cavanagh, Vanessa Nuttry, Mikayla Lawrence, Gweneth Morton, Shannon Cox, Audrey Diestelkamp, Lauren Levite, Kelly Haberstroh, and Patty Rosati and her team.
To Leah Rose Kolakowski, Molly Fehr, and Joel Tippie, for creating such a gorgeous cover and design.
To my UK agent, Claire Wilson, and to Safae El-Ouahabi at RCW, along with my PRH UK editors, India Chambers and Naomi Colthurst, for finding a place for Looking for Smoke in the UK. And thanks to the rest of the team at PRH UK, including Shreeta Shah, Jannine Saunders, and Harriet Venn.
