She shook her head again."Today."
"Today?"His voice was flat, incredulous.
"You have access to the university archives.You can pull files on a weekend.I checked."She had called ahead, confirming that the Anthropological Research Division had weekend access for faculty."Please, Dad.I've been patient.I've been careful.But I need to know if this vision meant something.I need to know if I'm on the right track or if I'm just..."
"Just what?"
"Seeing patterns that aren't there.Like you think Mom was doing."
The accusation hung between them.James flinched, recognizing the trap she'd laid.If he refused to help, he was essentially saying he thought both Anna and Kari were delusional.If he agreed, he was validating a spiritual vision he didn't believe in.
"I didn't mean—" he started.
"I know what you meant.And maybe you're right.Maybe this is a wild goose chase.But I have to follow it.I have to know."Kari leaned back, trying to look calmer than she felt."You don't have to believe in visions.You don't have to believe in any of it.Just help me look at some old case files.That's all I'm asking."
James studied her for a long moment, and Kari could see the calculation happening behind his eyes.The weighing of risks and benefits, the assessment of her mental state, the fatherly concern warring with professional skepticism.
Finally, he sighed."Alright.But we do this properly.No jumping to conclusions.No conspiracy theories.We look at the evidence objectively and see what's actually there.Deal?"
"Deal."
"And if we don't find anything—"
"Then I'll accept that and move on."It was a lie, and they both knew it, but it was the lie he needed to hear.
James pulled out his wallet and left cash on the table, enough for breakfast and a generous tip for Diane."The archives are climate-controlled," he said to Kari on the way out."You'll want to grab a jacket from your car.It's cold as a morgue in there."
CHAPTER TWO
The Anthropological Research Division occupied the east wing of Canyon State University's oldest building, a sprawling structure of red brick and tall windows that had witnessed seven decades of academic pursuit.Kari followed her father through corridors that smelled faintly of old paper and floor wax, past bulletin boards advertising symposiums on indigenous material culture and guest lectures on archaeological methodology.
"Most of the building's empty on Saturdays," James said as they climbed a stairwell to the second floor."Just a few graduate students camped out in the study rooms.We shouldn't be disturbed."
The archives were at the end of a long hallway, behind a door marked 'Restricted Access - Faculty Only.'James used his key card, and the lock clicked open with a soft mechanical sound.He flicked on the lights, revealing a windowless room lined floor to ceiling with filing cabinets and climate-controlled storage units.The temperature was noticeably cooler, and Kari was grateful for the jacket she'd grabbed from her Jeep.
The space felt like a tomb—appropriate, given what it contained.Decades of human tragedy catalogued and preserved, reduced to paper and filed away in neat rows.How many unsolved murders were documented here?How many families still waited for answers that these files might contain?
James moved to a desktop computer stationed on a small workstation near the entrance.He logged in, his fingers moving quickly across the keyboard."The FBI maintains a database of case files that have been transferred to academic institutions," he explained without looking up."Most of them are cold cases—unsolved homicides, missing persons, incidents where federal jurisdiction was involved but the cases eventually went inactive."
"Why transfer them here?"Kari asked, moving closer to watch the screen.
"Academic research.Criminology students, behavioral analysts, anthropologists studying patterns of violence in specific communities.The Bureau figures if they can't solve them, maybe fresh eyes will spot something they missed."James's tone suggested he didn't have a lot of faith in this idea."In practice, it's also a way to bury cases that are politically sensitive.Transfer them to a university archive, call it 'furthering academic research,' and most people forget they exist."
The screen filled with search results—dozens of case files, each with a reference number, a brief description, and a date range.James entered new search parameters: 'Tribal lands, Arizona/New Mexico, 1970-2025, Status: Unsolved/Inactive.'
The list narrowed but was still extensive.Kari scanned the descriptions as they scrolled past:
Missing person, Hopi Reservation, 1982.Female, 34.Last seen near ceremonial site.
Suspicious death, Navajo Nation, 1995.Male, 56.Found near Canyon de Chelly.Ruled accidental.
Missing person, White Mountain Apache, 2003.Male, 19.Vehicle found abandoned near reservation boundary.
Unattended death, Zuni Pueblo, 2011.Female, 41.Circumstances undetermined.
So many.The sheer volume was staggering.Each entry represented a person, a family, a community that had lost someone and never gotten answers.
"How do we know which ones Mom looked at?"Kari asked.
