along just fine.”
“So why the long face?”
“How do you do it, Dad?”
“Do what?”
“Get all tangled up in people’s lives and people’s problems without it tearing you apart.”
“Who says it doesn’t?”
“You always seem so unemotional about an investigation.”
“And that’s hard for you?”
“Jesus, I spent the last couple of hours steeped in Mariah’s life. I feel like she’s my little sister.”
“Nishiime,” Cork said.
Jenny shot him a questioning look.
English said to her, “Means ‘little sister’ in Ojibwe. I get what you’re saying, Jenny. I was just telling Cork the same thing.”
That made her nod, in agreement or sympathy or alliance. Whatever it was, Cork felt she saw herself—and maybe English—on one side of a line of behavior and he was on the other. He decided not to push it.
“What did you learn?” he asked her.
“I was hoping she might have posted what it was she loves most. You know, so we can help Louise answer Henry’s riddle. It’s the kind of thing kids put on Facebook.”
“But she didn’t?”
Jenny shook her head.
“Did you find out anything?”
Her gloom continued. “That she’s a reader. She liked The Hunger Games . That she got a guitar for her twelfth birthday and was learning to play. Home was too noisy and confused, so she would go down to the lakeshore to practice. The first day she did that, she saw an eagle soaring overhead. She thought maybe it was a good sign, but didn’t really know what it meant. She doesn’t understand the place of eagles in her culture. She said she knew they’re important and wanted to know more. She has a friend who’s really into being Anishinaabe and who’s learning the jingle dance. She envies her because she’s proud of being Indian. She hates her big brother, Toby. She thinks he’s mean and doesn’t do anything and hangs out with mean boys. But she really likes her cousin Puck. He’s more a big brother to her than her real big brother. And she likes her uncle Red. He’s kind of mean sometimes, too, but not to her. She understands that’s because he was in jail, and things are hard for him. When she goes into Bayfield, people treat her cold sometimes, just because she’s Indian.”
Jenny spoke as if Mariah were still in their midst, still present in Bad Bluff. Still alive.
“Then around a year ago, a little while before she ran away, her posts began to change. Listen to this, Dad.” From her purse, she pulled a slip of paper on which she’d written, “ ‘Dogs wander the woods along the lake north of my town. I think they used to be pets but got abandoned or something. They don’t belong to anybody, and they always have this hungry look. I don’t know if they’ll attack or not, so I try to stay away from them. Old guys look at me the same way.’” Jenny set the paper down and lifted her sad, blue eyes to her father. “It wasn’t long after that she changed the picture on her Facebook page to the one that’s so scary. And then she stopped posting altogether. I think something very bad happened to her before she ran away.”
“Any clue what that was?”
She balled her right fist and cupped it in her left hand, and it reminded Cork of a sheathed weapon. “If I had to guess, I’d say someone abused her. After I saw the dramatic change in her Facebook picture and her posts, I had my suspicions, so I Googled symptoms of sexual abuse. From everything we’ve heard, it seems clear to me she was exhibiting a lot of that behavior before she left. The sudden disinterest in her studies, in basketball. The change in her appearance. Those expensive, sexy underthings Leslie Littlejohn found in her locker.”
“If that’s true, any clue about the abuser?”
Jenny glanced at English. Apologetic, accusatory, Cork couldn’t say. “Family is usually the first place you look.”
English replied, “If we need to turn over rocks, we turn them over. Red’s invited us to dinner at Louise’s
“So why the long face?”
“How do you do it, Dad?”
“Do what?”
“Get all tangled up in people’s lives and people’s problems without it tearing you apart.”
“Who says it doesn’t?”
“You always seem so unemotional about an investigation.”
“And that’s hard for you?”
“Jesus, I spent the last couple of hours steeped in Mariah’s life. I feel like she’s my little sister.”
“Nishiime,” Cork said.
Jenny shot him a questioning look.
English said to her, “Means ‘little sister’ in Ojibwe. I get what you’re saying, Jenny. I was just telling Cork the same thing.”
That made her nod, in agreement or sympathy or alliance. Whatever it was, Cork felt she saw herself—and maybe English—on one side of a line of behavior and he was on the other. He decided not to push it.
“What did you learn?” he asked her.
“I was hoping she might have posted what it was she loves most. You know, so we can help Louise answer Henry’s riddle. It’s the kind of thing kids put on Facebook.”
“But she didn’t?”
Jenny shook her head.
“Did you find out anything?”
Her gloom continued. “That she’s a reader. She liked The Hunger Games . That she got a guitar for her twelfth birthday and was learning to play. Home was too noisy and confused, so she would go down to the lakeshore to practice. The first day she did that, she saw an eagle soaring overhead. She thought maybe it was a good sign, but didn’t really know what it meant. She doesn’t understand the place of eagles in her culture. She said she knew they’re important and wanted to know more. She has a friend who’s really into being Anishinaabe and who’s learning the jingle dance. She envies her because she’s proud of being Indian. She hates her big brother, Toby. She thinks he’s mean and doesn’t do anything and hangs out with mean boys. But she really likes her cousin Puck. He’s more a big brother to her than her real big brother. And she likes her uncle Red. He’s kind of mean sometimes, too, but not to her. She understands that’s because he was in jail, and things are hard for him. When she goes into Bayfield, people treat her cold sometimes, just because she’s Indian.”
Jenny spoke as if Mariah were still in their midst, still present in Bad Bluff. Still alive.
“Then around a year ago, a little while before she ran away, her posts began to change. Listen to this, Dad.” From her purse, she pulled a slip of paper on which she’d written, “ ‘Dogs wander the woods along the lake north of my town. I think they used to be pets but got abandoned or something. They don’t belong to anybody, and they always have this hungry look. I don’t know if they’ll attack or not, so I try to stay away from them. Old guys look at me the same way.’” Jenny set the paper down and lifted her sad, blue eyes to her father. “It wasn’t long after that she changed the picture on her Facebook page to the one that’s so scary. And then she stopped posting altogether. I think something very bad happened to her before she ran away.”
“Any clue what that was?”
She balled her right fist and cupped it in her left hand, and it reminded Cork of a sheathed weapon. “If I had to guess, I’d say someone abused her. After I saw the dramatic change in her Facebook picture and her posts, I had my suspicions, so I Googled symptoms of sexual abuse. From everything we’ve heard, it seems clear to me she was exhibiting a lot of that behavior before she left. The sudden disinterest in her studies, in basketball. The change in her appearance. Those expensive, sexy underthings Leslie Littlejohn found in her locker.”
“If that’s true, any clue about the abuser?”
Jenny glanced at English. Apologetic, accusatory, Cork couldn’t say. “Family is usually the first place you look.”
English replied, “If we need to turn over rocks, we turn them over. Red’s invited us to dinner at Louise’s
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