From the instant New York Times bestselling author of Firekeeper’s Daughter and Warrior Girl Unearthed comes a daring new mystery about a foster teen claiming her heritage on her own terms.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Angeline Boulley’s Sisters In The Wind, which releases on September 2nd 2025.
Ever since Lucy Smith’s father died five years ago, “home” has been more of an idea than a place. She knows being on the run is better than anything waiting for her as a “ward of the state”. But when the sharp-eyed and kind Mr. Jameson with an interest in her case comes looking for her, Lucy wonders if hiding from her past will ever truly keep her safe.
Five years in the foster system has taught her to be cautious and smart. But she wants to believe Mr. Jameson and his “friend-not-friend”, a tall and fierce-looking woman who say they want to look after her. They also tell Lucy the truth her father hid from her: She is Ojibwe; she has – had – a sister, and more siblings, a grandmother who’d look after her and a home where she would be loved.
But Lucy is being followed. The past has destroyed any chance at safety she had. Will the secrets she’s hiding swallow her whole and take away any hope for the future she always dreamed of?
When the past comes for revenge, it’s fight or flight.
Angeline Boulley’s award-winning canon of books puts compelling characters and fast-paced action at the center of narratives rich in historical context. Read Firekeeper’s Daughter; Warrior Girl Unearthed; and the soon-to-be-released Sisters of the Wind in any order; but like the world itself, there are echoes within each for the other stories.
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.”
I almost channel Tara’s snark. Special project indeed.
Nancy approaches with a coffeepot to refill the guy’s mug. She does a double take when I motion for coffee. She knows I prefer tea.
“Thank you,” the attorney says to Nancy. He is polite. Not just his words, but because he makes eye contact with her while saying it.
She takes an exaggeratedly long time to fill my coffee mug. Nancy would make a bad spy. Mr. Jameson waits for her reluctant departure to speak again.
“Do you have any questions for me?” he asks after a sip of black coffee. His elegant wristwatch is silver, or more likely platinum, with two faces set to different time zones.
I stare back in sullen, tough-girl mode.
He reacts with an apostrophe of a smile that I’m not expecting.
I glance at a Greyhound bus zooming north on the business spur before heaving a sigh and meeting his eyes.
“Just get on with it. I’ve got better things to do today.”
“Well, I don’t. You’re the highlight of my day,” he says without sarcasm.
His expression matches the sincerity of his tone. Alert brown eyes, lighter than my own. Nice smile—no feral grin or anything sketchy. The morning light shines on the left half of his face. It’s not in his eyes, but I pull down the filtered shade anyway. No wrinkles or frown lines. If he really is an attorney, then he’s a bit older than I thought. His thick, dark brown hair, no gray, is pulled away from his face and gathered into a braid. I noticed his hair yesterday—the shiny braid that ends halfway down his back.
He waits for me to finish my inspection. There is nothing fidgety about him.
I’ve encountered attorneys before. Mostly court-ordered ones who were supposed to look out for my best interests. They were usually fresh out of law school, but already jaded about juvenile delinquents. The experienced lawyers—the well-dressed ones—always worked for the other side.
Mr. Jameson carries himself like a seasoned attorney—minus the cockiness. I can’t quite figure him out. Nothing screams hit man, creeper, scammer, or dangerous and yet …
I’ve been wrong before. Which is why my iPhone is recording our conversation and Nancy keeps me in her periphery.
“What. Do you. Want.” I leave unsaid… and please speak clearly for the record.
“I’m an attorney who helps current and former foster kids who might be Native American find out whether they are indeed tribal and, if so, see if they would like to reconnect with their family and community. Is that something you’d like to pursue?”
The coffee mug slips in my hand. Hot liquid zings the spot directly above my heart. My hand is still shaking when I set the mug down.
I wouldn’t make a good spy today.
Attempting nonchalance, I scoff. “Never heard of anyone doing that.”
“Me neither,” he admits.
“Sounds expensive. And I don’t have money for that.” I focus on the coffee stain.
“I don’t charge anything. My work is funded by grants and donations.”
“Yeah, right,” I say, blotting the dark spot with a paper napkin.
There’s a spot-remover pen in my work apron. Glancing around, I catch Nancy’s eye and point to the stain on my shirt. We provide our own red tops at the diner. Thrift stores are hit or miss, and I’d rather not spring for a new shirt.
My plan was to keep him talking. Get as much information as possible and find out what he wanted from me. But my gut roils; I’ll need a bathroom soon. So I let him have it.
“Your jeans and turtleneck might be off the rack, Mr. Grant-Funded Do-Gooder, but your black cashmere coat is tailored like a second skin and those black lace-up boots look like Doc Martens but have a Prada triangle.” Rising, I motion for him to stay put. “I don’t know what game you’re playing…”
I grab my iPhone, stop recording, and lean over to snap a picture. I focus the shot to capture every follicle on his copper-colored face. It’s only then I notice an odd line down the right side of his cheek. A scar. I snap the picture before removing the phone between us, so we are practically nose to nose.
“I know you’ve been following me since New Year’s Eve. It. Ends. Now.”
He flinches as if slapped.
“I’ve only been in town for two days, Lily.” Something catches in his voice.
“It’s Lucy. Not Lily.” I snap my fingers in front of his face. “Pay attention.”
I bolt. Instead of looking back at the guy, I focus on Nancy taking an order from the booth nearest the alcove. She hands me a single wipe packet of stain remover as we cross paths.
“Do you need me to call for help?” Nancy doesn’t bother whispering.
“No. He’s leaving.”
I bypass the restrooms and push through the third door, which swings into the kitchen. It has a window the size of a picture frame to see anyone approaching from the other side. I use it to spy on Mr. Jameson.
He shakes his head, and a faint, sort of amused smile crosses his face just for a moment. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales before rising. He leaves something at the table before retrieving his coat. His back is to me while he puts on the expensive coat and leaves.
After I salvage my work shirt—thanks to Nancy’s stain-remover wipe—I return to the booth. Clearing the table, I notice one mug is missing. In its place Mr. Jameson left a twenty-dollar bill for Nancy and a business card for me.
The card has a black bird graphic and unfamiliar words: Gaagaagi Noodin. The back of the card lists a cell phone number and an email address, and there’s a handwritten message: Lucy, come home where you are loved.
