“It’s been with us ever since she went missing.” Tristan handed over the feather fan, a ceremonial piece that went with the jingle dress. “Kokum and her friend found it at the gas station parking lot that night.”

While growing up, Collin had heard the story many times from his best friend, his best friend’s grandmother, or someone else in the Kakeway family. But they’d never allowed him to hold the precious piece of Rosemary’s regalia until today. He had a hunch they were offering this keepsake because of the Route 66 trip his parents had gifted to him for completing university back in April.

He brushed the eight eagle feathers, and the soft tips glided along his fingers. To think Rosemary had held this at one time, had danced with it and honored it.

Tiny feathers were attached to the tips, most red, but the middle one was a deep shade of turquoise, the same color used for the beadwork that held the fan in place. These colors represented something to Rosemary. Why else would she have chosen them? Maybe she’d had a dream. Or a vision.

Sunset orange, bright red, mellow yellow, and white swirled along the stem like a rainbow, resembling a desert sunset, although Collin had never visited a desert in his life.

Rosemary had clutched this precious part of her regalia the night she’d disappeared, leaving behind the only trace of her existence on the parking lot asphalt.

The sacred fan was as breathtaking as her picture above the fireplace mantel, something Collin had stared at since childhood, in awe of her beauty. Dark-brown waves of hair cascaded down her back. Black, thick brows flowed in a perfect line with the slightest arch. Plush lips the shade of poppy red dared the photographer to kiss her. Striking almond-shaped eyes the hue of deep chocolate held a twinkle of mischievousness. And skin smoother than the feathers she adored dared him to trace her stunning flesh.

“I’m not sure why you want me to take it.” Collin kept staring at the photograph. If Rosemary was alive, his buddy’s great-aunt would be sixty-five, having disappeared at the tender age of nineteen, her first vacation off the rez with her sister and friend.

Maybe the mystery of Route 66 was true. Strange things happened on its trail before the US Highway System decommissioned the road in 1985, long before Collin’s birth.

“What did your kokum say?” Collin kept running his fingers along the eagle feathers.

“She was the one who told me you should take it. She said if you’re going to travel that route, you might find out what happened.” Tristan sat in the overstuffed chair, tossing peanuts into his mouth.

Nobody had accused Collin of being as savvy as Sherlock Holmes before, so Tristian’s kokum was stretching some heavy hope in finding her sister. Sure, the infamous route had intrigued Collin enough to study it on the Internet and even plan his first vacation on the once notorious highway, but what could he do to locate Rosemary? Today, she’d hardly resemble the youthful woman in the picture.

Rosemary’s affinity for red, even for stunning sunsets, sat on the ironic side, because the color represented the missing and murdered Indigenous women of Canada. Books were written about them, even TV specials. Too many had gone missing, and Rosemary had become another face hosted on the website dedicated to the ladies and girls.

Maybe he’d dig around. But did the gas station still exist where she was last seen? “What was the name of the gas station?”

“I can’t remember. Some mom-and-pop operation.” Tristan shrugged.

Tristan’s kokum breezed into the living room. She’d pulled back her black hair with a beaded barrette. Because of her weight loss, her sharp cheekbones were more pronounced. Not that she’d needed to lose weight. She’d been slim to start, but the medication for her recent disease had sapped her of an appetite, according to Tristan.

“When are you leaving?” she asked.

“Couple of days.”

“Don’t forget to—”

“I’m on it,” Collin reassured her.

“Are you excited?” Her dark eyes warmed.

“It’ll be cool. I got my old map and everything.” Some might call his obsession with Route 66 weird, but he really wanted to drive all the way to California where the highway ended.

“There’s a reason why you feel a connection to it.” She sank in the wicker chair.

“Route 66?” Collin scrunched his brows.

“Yes. She was the same way. She always had a connection with eagles. Her Ojibway name’s Wiin Gaganoozh Migiziig.”

Collin nodded. She Talks to Eagles, translated into English. “So she spoke to them?”

Tristian’s kokum laughed. “No. Not Rosemary. She had other interests. Remember, she was nineteen. It’s rare when I see an eagle if I’m out walking, but my little sister…” Mrs. Adams’ eyes misted. She wrapped her fingers together. “They were always there. Always dropping feathers for her. It’s how she made her feather fan. They come from migiziig.”

Collin glanced at the feather fan he continued to hold. “Did she acknowledge them in any way?”

Mrs. Adams’ face lit up, and her full lips spread into a smile. “I’m afraid parties and boys were more on her mind, but she respected them. Each feather they gifted to her, she offered tobacco.”

“But Tristan said you weren’t wild.” Collin had also heard the stories of Rosemary’s free spirit.

“Remember, I’m two years older. Times were different then. People were experimenting with just about everything.” The shock punching his gut must have shown in Collin’s face, because Mrs. Adams added, “I wasn’t always old. I liked my parties, too. If I hadn’t been with that boy that night…”

Collin’s cheeks heated. “I never said you were old.”

“But anyone over forty is old in your young eyes.”