The search had lasted five days. Volunteer teams, tracking dogs, a helicopter from the county. They'd covered the area where Evan's truck had been found parked—a remote trailhead near a series of canyons and rock formations. No sign of him. No blood, no torn clothing, no evidence of injury or foul play.
Just gone.
Ben read through the witness statements. Evan's mother, Dorothy. His younger sister, Charlene. Friends from the community. Everyone described him the same way: a responsible, experienced outdoorsman, not the type to take unnecessary risks.
No criminal record. Not even a speeding ticket. He'd worked at the high school in Chinle as a maintenance technician, had been saving money for college. By all accounts, a solid young man with a promising life ahead of him.
The file contained no theories about what had happened. The investigating officer—a name Ben didn't recognize, probably had retired or transferred years ago—had documented the search thoroughly but drawn no conclusions. The case had simply gonecold, another young person lost to the vast landscape of the reservation.
Ben found the land records tucked at the back of the file, a single page noting that the area where Evan had last been seen had been sold to a private buyer three weeks after his disappearance, for the exorbitant sum of $3.2 million. A high price for sixty acres of rough terrain with no water access, no improvements, nothing but rock and scrub and emptiness.
Ben had grown up on the reservation, had seen plenty of land transactions over the years. Mineral rights sometimes drove prices up, but this area had been surveyed years ago—no significant resources.
So why would anyone pay that much for essentially worthless land?
Devco Holdings, apparently.
He made a note of the company's name and the transaction date, then gathered the papers and returned them to their folder. Not much to go on after fifteen years. But maybe Evan's family would remember something useful, some detail that hadn't made it into the official file.
Ben checked his watch. Nearly noon. He knew the plan had been for Kari to interview the family, but she was tied up with the Phoenix case now. He could at least talk to Evan's mother, get the basic background. Kari could follow up with the sister later if needed—the file listed her as living in Albuquerque, not exactly a quick conversation.
If he was going to do this, he should do it properly.
He headed for his vehicle.
***
Dorothy Naalnish lived in a weathered mobile home on the outskirts of Tsaile, set back from the main road with a view of the Chuska Mountains rising in the distance. Ben pulled into thedirt driveway, noting the well-maintained yard, the flower boxes beneath the windows, the blue tarp covering a woodpile stacked against the north side of the home.
Someone—probably Dorothy herself—had hung wind chimes from the porch overhang. They caught the breeze as Ben approached, producing a soft metallic melody that seemed both welcoming and melancholy.
He knocked, and after a moment the door opened to reveal a woman in her late sixties, her gray hair pulled back in a traditional bun, her face weathered but her eyes sharp and assessing.
"Mrs. Naalnish? I'm Officer Ben Tsosie with the Navajo Nation Police. I'm sorry to bother you without calling first."
Dorothy's expression shifted through several emotions—surprise, wariness, and then something that might have been hope. "Is this about Evan?"
Ben was a bit surprised that she would ask this. It had been fifteen years, after all. Then again, did you ever get over the disappearance of your child?
"Yes, ma'am," he said. "I'm reviewing his case. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions, if you have time."
She studied him for a long moment, then stepped back. "Come in."
The interior of the mobile home was small but immaculate. Family photos covered one wall, a gallery of smiling faces at graduations and weddings and birthday parties. Ben's eyes paused on one photo in particular: a young man in his early twenties, standing on a rock outcropping with canyon walls rising behind him, his face bright with the uncomplicated joy of being young and alive.
"That was taken maybe three months before he disappeared," Dorothy said, following his gaze. "Out near Monument Valley—he loved that area."
"He looks happy."
"He was." Dorothy gestured to the kitchen table. "Sit. I'll make coffee."
"You don't have to—"
"I'm making it anyway." She moved to the counter, and Ben heard the measured rhythm of scoops hitting the coffee maker. "Nobody's asked about Evan in years. Police came around for a while after he disappeared, but then..." She shrugged. "Life moves on. People forget."
"You haven't forgotten."
"A mother doesn't forget her son." Dorothy set two mugs on the table and sat across from him. "What do you want to know?"
