Free Windigo Island by William Kent Krueger

responded with a puzzled look, as if the question didn’t seem to make sense to him. “My cousin.”
    “No. I mean, who is she? Nobody seems to know, really. All we hear is that she’s an Indian girl who had potential. Then she changed. How does that make her any different from any other thirteen-year-old girl? We all change when we become teenagers, change dramatically.”
    “We don’t all run away,” English said.
    Jenny ignored him. “I’m wondering what she dreamed, what she feared, what she loved, what she read, what made her laugh. I’m wondering who she is—here.” She made a fist and thumped her breast above her heart. “I’m wondering what the answer to Henry’s question is.”
    “Henry’s question?”
    “What’s Mariah’s most precious possession?”
    “The key to why she ran away?” English asked.
    “I don’t know. But I still want the answer.”
    Cork said quietly, “The deeper you go, the more personal it becomes, Jenny. Henry gave me a fine piece of advice once. He told me that anger blinds. That to hunt, you need a clear eye, and for that you need a clear mind.”
    “I’m not angry.”
    “Not yet maybe. But if you allow this to become deeply personal, you will be. And in the end, you won’t only be blind, you’ll be hurt.”
    “So your answer is not to care.”
    “My answer is to keep a clear mind and a clear eye. It seems to me the best way to help Mariah, if she can be helped.”
    “And I think you ought to be able to care, care deeply, about someone, and still think clearly.”
    “All right,” he said.
    “All right?” She seemed surprised that he’d given in so easily.
    “So how do we do this?” Cork said. “How do we find out who Mariah is? How do we find out the answer to Henry’s question? Because it was obvious that her mother didn’t have a clue.” He glanced at English. “Any idea?”
    English shook his head. “The Arceneauxs are blood relatives, but I know my next-door neighbors better. Between the government boarding schools and all the relocation policies, Indian families have been torn apart. With us there’s more to it than that. See, my great-grandmother married a good man, Lac Courte Oreilles Anishinaabe. Veteran of World War One and proud of it. Owned a gas station. Great mechanic. Still alive when I was born.I remember him fondly. My great-grandmother’s sister, things were different for her. Married a Bad Bluff Shinnob, a fisherman. What they called a herring choker. Knew how to handle a herring net, but couldn’t handle the booze. Been a battle for them up here. Don’t get me wrong. We’ve had our struggles, too. Wouldn’t be an Indian’s life if things came easy. But we’ve always been strong on family where I live. The battles we’ve fought have been against governments, bureaucracies, stupid prejudices, not against each other. We’re some of the lucky ones. We know that. I think the Arceneaux bunch know it, too, and there’s always been a little bad blood there. So Mariah?” He shrugged, clueless.
    Jenny said, “Girls sometimes keep diaries or journals.” She thought a moment and then said with a sudden epiphany, “Or they post their lives on Facebook.”
    “But don’t you need to friend her or something to see her Facebook page?” Cork said.
    “I’m one of her friends,” English said.
    Jenny said, “I thought you didn’t keep track of the Arceneaux branch of the family.”
    “Don’t really follow anyone on Facebook, but I do have a page. Mariah shot me a friend request a couple of years ago. I accepted.”
    “Let’s take a look at Mariah’s Facebook page.” Jenny pulled her smart phone from her purse. “Damn it. Battery’s dead.”
    “There’s probably a computer at the public library,” English suggested.
    “Let’s go see.” Jenny got up.
    “You haven’t eaten,” Cork said. “You need to eat. Keeps the mind clear.”
    Jenny gave a little growl of grudging consent and sat back down.
    They all ordered