Page 37 of Twice Missing
Straight ahead, the gift shop drew their attention. It was a treasure trove of Indigenous crafts and artwork. Shelves lined the walls, filled with intricately woven baskets, delicate dreamcatchers, and hand-carved wooden figures. Glass cases displayed stunning beadwork jewelry, each piece a remarkable display of the skill and artistry of its creator.
Noah moved through the shop, taking in the sights. Racks of CDs featuring Native American music stood next to shelves of educational books and DVDs about Mohawk history and culture. Colorful greeting cards adorned with Indigenous artwork and Mohawk language phrases were neatly arranged on a rotating stand.
The walls were adorned with vibrant paintings depicting scenes from Mohawk legends and daily life. Handwoven textiles in rich, earthy tones hung from displays, their intricate patterns telling stories of their own.
As they approached the front desk, Noah noticed the clerk — a middle-aged woman with long, dark hair streaked with silver. Her face was lined with the wisdom of years, and her eyes held a sharp intelligence as she watched them approach.
Noah pulled out the evidence bag containing the bracelet. "Excuse me," he said, keeping his tone friendlyand casual. "A friend of ours said this would have been sold here. Does it look familiar?"
The clerk reached for the glasses hanging around her neck, perching them on her nose as she leaned in to examine the bracelet. Her eyes narrowed, flicking from the bracelet to Noah's face, a new wariness evident in her gaze.
"Who's asking?" she said, her voice carrying a hint of suspicion.
Noah hesitated, then decided honesty was the best approach. "Sorry, I'm Noah Sutherland. State Police. This is Detective McKenzie."
McKenzie stepped forward, flashing his badge. "We're working on behalf of Franklin County," he added, his Scottish accent drawing a raised eyebrow from the clerk.
The woman's posture stiffened. "What is State doing on our land?"
"Just asking questions," Noah said, trying to keep his tone light.
"Maybe you should ask the tribal police," she suggested, her voice cool.
Noah frowned. "Why would that be?"
The clerk's eyes hardened. "Because the artist who made this went missing eight months ago."
Noah and McKenzie exchanged a significant look. This was an unexpected development, one that could potentially tie into their investigation.
"Would you have a name?" Noah asked, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice.
The clerk turned, pointing towards an area of the giftshop. "Kayla Bravebird," she said. "She's on the second row, third from the right."
As Noah and McKenzie moved in the direction she indicated, they found themselves in a section of the shop that was dominated by the color red, interspersed with black and white imagery.
A large poster dominated one wall, featuring a collage of faces — women and girls of various ages, some smiling, others serious. All were marked as missing or murdered. Beneath it, a placard stated grim statistics about Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Relatives (MMIW/R).
Each case was in bold, unforgiving lettering.
Noah's gaze swept over the shelves, taking in the array of items that told a silent but powerful story. Delicate branches held miniature red dresses, swaying slightly in the air-conditioned breeze — a poignant symbol he recognized from the REDress Project. Next to them, a row of faceless dolls in vibrant red dresses stood sentinel, each one a representation of a missing or murdered Indigenous woman.
The soft lighting caught on beaded red hand pins and pendants, their intricate designs gleaming. Noah knew these symbolized the silenced voices of victims, a thought that sent a chill down his spine. His eyes moved to a nearby table where t-shirts and hoodies were neatly folded, their bold lettering proclaiming "No More Stolen Sisters" alongside the now-familiar red hand emblem.
The collection of items, each carefully crafted and placed, spoke volumes about the ongoing crisis. Noah feltthe weight of countless untold stories pressing in around him.
A display of books caught McKenzie's attention. Titles on MMIW/R, Indigenous women's stories, and advocacy efforts filled the shelves. Beside them stood informational pamphlets and cards with hotline numbers for reporting missing persons or seeking support.
Noah picked up a small dreamcatcher adorned with a single red feather. Its tag explained the significance of the color and the item's connection to healing and protection. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the weight of its symbolism.
As they moved through the section, Noah noticed red ribbon skirts hanging on a rack. Their informational tags described their cultural importance and use in awareness events. The vivid red seemed to pulse in the soft lighting of the shop.
Near the checkout counter, a clear donation box sat, its sides revealing a mix of coins and bills. A sign above it read, "Support MMIW/R Advocacy and Family Services." The sight of it drove home the reality of the situation — this wasn't just a display, but a call to action for an ongoing crisis.
McKenzie paused at a final display — a wall of photographs showing community events, marches, and vigils. Candles flickered beneath the images, creating a solemn, reflective atmosphere in this corner of the otherwise bustling gift shop. The faces in the photos were a mix of determination, grief, and hope.
McKenzie nudged Noah, drawing his attention to anentire wall covered from floor to ceiling with missing person posters. Each poster featured an Indigenous woman or girl, their ages spanning from young children to elders. Above the wall, bold letters proclaimed: "Remember May 5th as the National Day of Awareness for Missing and Murdered Native Women and Relatives."
Noah's eyes scanned the faces, a sense of unease growing in his gut. So many missing, so many lives disrupted. His gaze finally settled on a poster titled "Kayla Bravebird." The woman in the photo was young, perhaps in her mid-twenties, with long dark hair and a bright smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. According to the poster, she had been missing for eight months.
