Killing Custer by Margaret Coel

window. Easy for the police to say killer must be an Indian. They have a real narrow theory that works for them.” He leaned forward, so close she could smell the Coke-sweet odor of his breath. “You don’t give a damn about that Custer fellow. You think I have something to do with your boyfriend going missing.”
    â€œThey were friends, Skip and the guy that got killed. He came around the office a few times. They got into an argument. Cops are going to put it together, start thinking somebody was after both of them. Soon as they find out about us, they’re going to say you wanted Skip out of the way. Dead, like Custer.”
    â€œYou forget, Angela. There’s no us. Not anymore.”
    She looked out across the pasture. The wind made the soft noise of a calf sucking a teat. Colin was right. There was no longer anything between them. What had she heard on the moccasin telegraph? He’d been seen around the rez with different women. What did she care? She had Skip.
    Except that Skip was gone.
    She bit at her lower lip and looked back at Colin. Full of himself, legs spread apart, boots dug into the dirt. “What is it?”
    Colin took a few seconds before he said: “You ask me, you’re in a lot of trouble. Did he finally dump you? That would make the cops think you had something to do with his disappearance.”
    â€œHe didn’t dump me.”
    â€œHe was planning to.”
    â€œYou’re lying.”
    Colin leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. “You want the truth? After you broke things off and took up with Skip Burrows, I started paying attention. Checking up on him. I did it for you, Angela. You ask me, he’s a big phony. Everybody’s good friend. Just don’t turn your back on him. Followed him to Riverton a couple times, straight to the house of a white filly. You want her name?”
    â€œShut up! Shut up!” Angela jumped out of the chair and stomped to the corner of the house. She forced herself to turn back. Is that where Skip had gone after he left her last night? Head buried in the pillow against the sounds of his footsteps in the alley, the faraway roar of the BMW’s motor.
    â€œThe Realtor?” she managed.
    â€œYou sure you want to know?”
    â€œMaybe she knows where he is.”
    â€œDeborah Boynton. Works in a real-estate office off Federal. Red hair and green eyes that stop traffic. You’d better forget her. If she knows anything about Skip disappearing, you don’t want to get involved.”
    â€œYou don’t get it,” Angela said. “I love Skip. I’ll do anything to help him.” She swung around and hurried to the hatchback. In ten minutes she was driving east on Seventeen-Mile Road with the sun lingering over the mountains behind her, the plains lit in gold and magenta, Riverton ahead.
    * * *
    ANGELA TURNED INTO the narrow parking lot in front of the strip mall with doors and plate-glass windows stuck in a yellowish frame building. Slowing across the lot, peering at the signs on the plate glass. Nails, Tai Chi, Best Tacos in Town, Coffee and Donuts, Barber, Take-Out Chinese, Hometown Realtors. Even before she got out of the hatchback, she could see the real-estate office was closed. Photos of houses and apartment buildings plastered on the plate– glass window stood out in relief against the dark interior. Painted across the glass door was Open 8 a.m. to 5 p.m.
    She stepped in close and started banging on the door. The glass shimmered under her fist. She peered inside willing someone to emerge from the shadows in back, wind past the wood reception counter and metal chairs lined against the side walls, and fling open the door.
Deborah Boynton?
the person would say.
Not here.
No one’s here. Gone home for the day. And where’s home?
she would ask.
Well, that depends on who wants to know.
    â€œI want to know.” Angela realized she was screaming at the