Sisters in the Wind
Angeline Boulley
To my three children—Chris, Ethan, and Sarah. And for all the onions.
Content warning: This book contains depictions of child sex trafficking, child abuse, teen pregnancy, explosions and bombing, ableism, anti-Indigenous racism and colorism, hospitalization, gun violence, and death, with mentions of police brutality, genocide, and colonialism.
PART ONE
INCIPIENT
The ancient Greeks believed that fire was one of the four basic elements that composed all things in the universe … Fire is not, in fact, a substance. When you gaze at the leaping flames of a campfire, you’re observing not an object, but a process—a chemical reaction.
—National Fire Protection Association Reporter’s Guide: All About Fire
THE DAY BEFORE
JANUARY 2009
My heart races when the handsome Native guy enters the diner. He’s tall and lean, and he glides past my early-morning regulars as if modeling what metrosexual men wear. He smoothly removes a stylish black knee-length wool coat to reveal a black cotton turtleneck and Levi’s jeans. He looks a few years older than me. My silver-haired coffee crew would still call him a young man.
Mr. Model sits in my section, causing the butterflies in my stomach to drop like canaries in a coal mine.
Yesterday he sat at the counter but turned in his barstool to stare at me. I—or, rather, my ample breasts—have been stared at since I was eleven. My heavily winged eyeliner, multiple ear and facial piercings, and arm tattoos are supposed to discourage men from taking things any further. It’s a passive form of predator avoidance. Since the Native guy seemed even more intrigued, I escalated from passive to aggressive defense. I rolled my eyes contemptuously and followed up with a withering glare, while ignoring the jittery nausea of my instantly wary gut.
It worked, mostly. Mr. Model turned his attention to the laminated menu, but not before grinning at me. I kept an eye on him until he finally left. I hoped that was the end of the matter. The lingering turmoil in my stomach said otherwise.
Today, my body repeats the topsy-turvy gut reaction. I approach the booth with a full pot of freshly brewed coffee. My grip tightens around the black plastic handle.
Anything can become a weapon in my hands.
“Good morning, Lucy,” he says pleasantly.
I stiffen. My work apron has a name badge attached above my right boob, but he hasn’t looked at it. I always know when guys stare at my chest. Even the ones trying to hurt me get distracted.
Not this guy.
He turns the coffee cup right side up. His warm smile seems genuine. Cats enjoy playing with their prey, do they not?
I pour the coffee and wait for him to speak.
“Would it be possible for you to take a break and join me?” His voice is calm and without an obvious regional accent.
My first break at the Pleasant Diner is after the morning rush. Most of the silver-hairs have left by then. My last few customers have their checks, which the counter server can ring up.
I glance at my dad’s square Seiko watch—barely able to see the time through the scratched-up crystal but never doubting the hands I can still make out. It’s ten forty-five a.m. on the dot.
Mr. Model knows my work schedule.
I assess my options. Risk and reward. Do I smash the glass decanter against his skull and run? I’d gain a head start but risk escalating the cat-and-mouse game. Or I could get this over with and figure out my next move.
They don’t want me dead. Not initially, at least.
Running my fingers through spiky, dyed black hair, I sigh my surrender.
“Fine. But I need to clock out first.”
His shocked expression makes no sense; I gave the answer he wanted. Instead he reacts as if he just saw a ghost.
I head to the back of the diner, where an alcove leads to the restrooms and the kitchen. Along the way, I tug at Nancy’s apron and ask if I’m good to go on break. She’s never denied me, but it’s a courtesy thing.
“Sure, sweetie.”
Nancy is something of a legend. She’s been here the longest besides Tim, who is both cook and owner of the old-fashioned railcar diner. A few of the silver-hairs were classmates of theirs.
Whereas I call myself a server, Nancy is an OG waitress. She proudly owns the waitress label. I added the OG part and was delighted when she laughed and didn’t need me to explain that original gangster meant old-school proper respect.
“Keep an eye on me, okay?” I say while still within earshot.
“You got it.”
Tara, who works the counter, enters the kitchen as I hang my apron in my locker. We aren’t supposed to wear our aprons while on break.
“The hot guy came back,” she says. “He asked about you, not that I had much to say.” Her snark is loud and clear.
Ignoring her, I grab the iPhone from my backpack and return to the booth.
I’m glad I’ve never gotten too chummy with Tara in six months of working at the diner. Even Nancy wouldn’t be able to say a whole lot about me if asked.
Taking a seat opposite the hit man, I fiddle with my phone beneath the table.
“Hello, Lucy. Thank you for meeting with me.” He smiles amiably, unfazed by my silence. “My name is John Jameson. I’m an attorney and I wanted to meet you regarding a special project I’m working on.”