Author Vanessa Lillie talks to Club Calvi about her new bestselling book "The Bone Thief"
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"The Bone Thief" by Vanessa Lillie has been called one of the best thrillers of 2025. It's about the search for a missing Indigenous woman and the disappearance of historic Native remains, newly discovered.
"The Bone Thief" is a sequel to Lillie's book "Blood Sisters," which was also a bestseller, and follows the life and career of the main character.
"Syd Walker is an archeologist for the Bureau of Indian Affairs," Lillie told Mary Calvi. "She is passionately committed to helping Indigenous communities. I put a lot of myself into her character. Even her last name, Walker, is the last name of my family members who were on the Trail of Tears. I'm originally from Oklahoma. I just infused some of that into her character as well."
The Trail of Tears refers to the forced removal of five tribes from their lands in what is now Oklahoma after the 1830 Indian Removal Act. Thousands died during the difficult journey.
"My favorite engine in being creative is truth in fiction," Lillie said. "I think the real history is something we can share even in the pages of a thriller. So I'm consistently researching in books, doing informational interviews. 'The Bone Thief' starts with the Great Swamp Massacre. Remains are found from that event. I think how, creatively, can I make this a plot point that readers are going to want to follow?"
The discovery of Native remains and how they are treated are relevant for archeologists and scholars today.
"There's a big conversation right now about what belongs in museums," Lillie said. "Who should be the voice sharing that information with people? 'The Bone Thief' is a part of that conversation."
Lillie noted that November is Native American Heritage Month and she recommended two books for Club Calvi readers.
Lillie says "Love is a War Song" by Dania Nava, a Chickasaw author, "is a romance, and cowboy romance is so hot right now. It's about a disgraced pop star who goes home to her Oklahoma reservation and, of course, there's a grumpy cowboy involved. It's funny. It's heartfelt. It's an awesome read."
Lillie also recommends "To the Moon and Back" by debut author Eliana Ramage, a citizen of the Cherokee Nation.
"It's about a very ambitious young woman who wants to be the first Cherokee astronaut," Lillie said. "It's also a family story."
You can read excerpts from "The Bone Thief," "Love is a War Song," and "To The Moon and Back" and get the books below.
These books may contain adult themes.
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"The Bone Thief" by Vanessa Lillie
From the publisher: In the hours before dawn at a local summer camp, Bureau of Indian Affairs archaeologist Syd Walker receives an alarming call: newly discovered skeletal remains have been stolen. Not only have bones gone missing, but a Native teen girl has disappeared near the camp, and law enforcement dismisses her family's fears.
As Syd investigates both crimes, she's drawn into a world of privileged campers and their wealthy parents—most of them members of the Founders Society, an exclusive club whose members trace their lineage to the first colonists and claim ancestral rights to the land, despite fierce objections from the local tribal community. And it's not the first time something—or someone—has gone missing from the camp.
The deeper Syd digs, the more she realizes these aren't isolated incidents. A pattern of disappearances stretches back generations, all leading to the Founders Society's doorstep. But exposing the truth means confronting not just the town's most powerful families, but also a legacy of violence that refuses to stay buried.
Vanessa Lillie lives in Rhode Island.
"The Bone Thief" by Vanessa Lillie (ThriftBooks) $22
"Love is a War Song" by Danica Nava
From the publisher: Pop singer Avery Fox has become a national joke after posing scantily clad on the cover of Rolling Stone in a feather warbonnet. What was meant to be a statement of her success as a Native American singer has turned her into a social pariah and dubbed her a fake. With threats coming from every direction and her career at a standstill, she escapes to her estranged grandmother Lottie's ranch in Oklahoma. Living on the rez is new to Avery—not only does she have to work in the blazing summer heat to earn her keep, but the man who runs Lottie's horse ranch despises her and wants her gone.
Red Fox Ranch has been home to Lucas Iron Eyes since he was sixteen years old. He has lived by three rules to keep himself out of trouble: 1) preserve the culture, 2) respect the horses, and 3) stick to himself. When he is tasked with picking up Lottie's granddaughter at the bus station, the last person he expected to see is the Avery Fox. Lucas can't stand what she represents, but when he's forced to work with her on the ranch, he can't get her out of his sight—or his head. He reminds himself to keep to his rules, especially after he finds out the ranch is under threat of being shut down.
It's clear Avery doesn't belong here, but they form a tentative truce and make a deal: Avery will help raise funds to save the ranch, and in exchange, Lucas will show her what it really means to be an Indian. It's purely transactional, absolutely no horsing around…but where's the fun in that?
Danica Nava lives in Southern California.
"Love is a War Song" by Danica Nava (ThriftBooks) $16
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To The Moon and Back" by Eliana Ramage
From the publisher: Steph Harper is on the run. She has been all her life, ever since her mother drove five-year-old Steph and her younger sister through the night to Cherokee Nation, a place they had never been, but where she hoped they might finally belong. In response to the turmoil, Steph sets her sights as far away from Oklahoma as she can get, vowing that she will let nothing get in the way of pursuing the rigorous physical and academic training she knows she will need to be accepted by NASA, and ultimately, to go to the moon.
Spanning three decades and several continents, To the Moon and Back encompasses Steph's turbulent journey, along with the multifaceted and intertwined lives of the three women closest to her: her sister Kayla, an artist who goes on to become an Indigenous social media influencer, and whose determination to appear good takes her life to unexpected places; Steph's college girlfriend Della Owens, who strives to reclaim her identity as an adult after being removed from her Cherokee family through a challenge to the Indian Child Welfare Act; and Hannah, Steph and Kayla's mother, who has held up her family's tribal history as a beacon of inspiration to her children, all the while keeping her own past a secret.
In Steph's certainty that only her ambition can save her, she will stretch her bonds with each of these women to the point of breaking, at once betraying their love and generosity, and forcing them to reconsider their own deepest desires in her shadow.
Eliana Ramage lives in Nashville.
"To the Moon and Back" by Eliana Ramage (ThriftBooks) $20
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Excerpt: "The Bone Thief" by Vanessa Lillie
I keep my eyes shut against the light. Maybe I should be scared, but all I feel is anger.
"Who are you?" the deep voice asks. "Who are you?" I snap.
Footsteps draw closer. "The one not trespassing."
"I'm not. Get that light out of my eyes, and I'll show you." The beam shifts lower, and I blink at a world of small pulsing lights in the darkness. "I need to get something. Out of my pocket."
"Hey!" he calls as if I'm pulling a gun, too.
"It's my phone." I put my flashlight away and motion toward my other pocket. "In here, okay?"
He moves his light over the lower half of my body. "Slowly."
I take out my work cell and dial into the messages. There is only one saved, and I put the phone on speaker: "Bud, after all these years, you were right. We found the remains at the back of the camp. Can you be here at first light?"
As my eyes adjust, I see a younger guy's sharply angular face,
maybe early twenties, pale skin, and wavy red hair. He's not hold‑ ing a gun, and I don't see anything that could be one. A bluff.
I wait for him to admit that's his voice, but instead he says, "How did you come to possess Bud's phone?"
"It's not his. It's BIA's." I stop there, not explaining that as an archeologist for the Bureau of Indian Affairs, it's rare for me to get calls on my work cell after hours, so I'd paid attention to this one.
Leave it, my old boss Bud Russell said when I took our shared work cell home with me. Where do you think the bones will go, Syd?
That's not a question I would answer, because our views differed on how to do this job.
"Do you need me to replay it?" I hold up the phone. "That's your voice, right?"
I don't explain that Bud had a map of Camp Quahog hanging on the wall of our office, if you can call it that. Basically a shed where we store the dig equipment. When I heard the message, I guessed this was the place.
He pulls a walkie‑talkie off his belt. "This is Tad at Camp Quahog, over."
A crackle and then: "You've got FS security, over."
"Security?" I close my flip phone. "I'm an archeologist armed with a toothbrush, Tad." I swap the phone for the brush in my pocket to show him. "Literally."
Tad holds up his flashlight and takes several steps closer to me and the dig pit. I think of Ichabod Crane in Sleepy Hollow and the glow from the Headless Horseman. "That does not preclude you from being a risk to what we're doing."
Interesting. "What exactly are you doing?"
He brings the walkie‑talkie back to his mouth. "I need a security escort off the camp property."
"Roger, I was tracking," says the man's voice, and my hunter is revealed. "What's your location?"
"We're near Bud's Big Dig, over."
I frown at the use of my old boss's name. "Bud's what?"
The man's voice on the walkie‑talkie responds, "Confirmed, I will be there in seven minutes, over."
Tad clicks the device back onto his belt. "Ample time for you to elucidate your possession of Bud's phone."
I almost roll my eyes at that one. Elucidate. Instead, I focus on what matters and turn toward the exposed remains in the dirt. A familiar feeling has arrived, as if these bones are in crisis, forced to reach toward me for help. Now I have less than seven minutes to convince Tad to see it that way. "It's not Bud's phone. It belongs to the Bureau of Indian Affairs, which is where I still work."
His face falls. "Bud doesn't?"
"He retired."
"Since when?"
"Six months ago." I keep myself from saying it felt like Bud was retired all five years I worked for him.
"You're lying."
I snicker. "Lying about my boss retiring?"
Tad watches me for a moment as if divining the truth. Finally, something shifts, and his shoulders droop as his flashlight's beam shines into the pit. "Bud should be here."
From his tone, I wonder if they were friends. If this information has hurt his feelings somehow. "There wasn't a party. He put in his papers and left."
"I hadn't heard from him since last summer." Tad runs his hands through this hair. "He's desultory—"
"I don't know that one," I interrupt. "Elucidate."
"It means Bud lacks foresight at times. Pinning him down was nearly impossible." Tad lets out a big sigh. "We have so many plans."
Bud mentioned helping with the camp during the summer. More time fishing on their private pond, I'd assumed, but never asked. He certainly didn't indicate there was an archeological connection.
Bud, you were right. We found the remains at the back of the camp.
Can you be here at first light?
They were searching for these bones. Now that they've found them, what's next?
I put my hands in my pockets hoping Tad will accept my help. "Look, I know Bud's not here, but I am."
The light casts a shadow across Tad's downturned face. "Who are you?"
I sigh because I'm not going to lie, though maybe I should. The last thing I need is another issue on my record for BIA to investigate. "I'm Syd Walker. Bud was my boss for five years." I pause to smile a little, to communicate that I'm here to help. "At a glance, I'd say these remains are historical and tribal."
Tad's trance is broken, and he pulls up to his full height. "How old, do you think?"
"Based on the depth of this dig and location to the Great Swamp area, it's likely these remains are tied to King Philip's War. At least three hundred years."
"That's good, Syd." A smile of pleasure widens across his face. A strange reaction to my mentioning the bloodiest conflict on Rhode Island soil, when the colonists led an unprovoked attack against the Narragansett. "Very good."
From THE BONE THIEF published by arrangement with Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC. Copyright © 2025 by Vanessa Lillie
Excerpt: "Love is a War Song" by Danica Nava
Three nearly naked men drenched in oil gyrated around me, their things barely covered in short tan-hide loincloths that dangled between their thighs. When I was a little girl dreaming of being a singer like Norah Jones, this was not what I had pictured.
I pictured myself onstage wearing a flowing gown draped over the bench of a gorgeous grand piano as I slammed the keys and crooned into the microphone. I could hear the crowd in my mind singing along to the songs I poured my soul into, cheering as I hit the bridge and shook my hair all over the place.
Instead of all that, I was filming my first solo music video off my debut album, dressed in next to nothing, stumbling through choreography with male dancers wearing even less, lip-synching the words to a song where I have zero writing credit. Not that I really wanted credit for the majority of the chorus being just "oh oh oh" approximately three billion times, but writing was what I thought I did best. When I was finally given this record deal, I had thought some of the songs I wrote and demoed for my label would make it onto my album. None of them did. With autotune, anyone could be a pop singer, but I was a songwriter first. Sadly, that was not what the executives who controlled my career believed.
The only reason the powers that be were investing so heavily in this music video now was because of the success of my leading single, "I Need a Warrior Tonight." They weren't sure a Native American pop star could enter the charts. I not only debuted my single in the Billboard Hot 100, but the song has stayed there for nine weeks. Now we were all scrambling to get this music video shot and released to capitalize on the success. Afraid the market attention would turn, and this would all be a waste. It couldn't be. I wouldn't let it.
There was one thing I never called myself—a dancer. Yet here I was trying to remember the intricate choreography while wearing five-inch stilettos to get one flawless take. My concentrated face looked too "angry," and we had been filming this sequence for what felt like hours. A slippery, toned butt cheek of one of the dancers whacked my hand, causing hysterical laughter to bubble out of me. I missed my cue mouthing the words to the next line of this absurd song and I knew I was about to get in trouble.
"Cut!" Fabian, the most coveted music video director in the world, threw his headset as he stormed over to me. My song cut off and was replaced with silence.
I tried to stop laughing, I really did. But then one of the dancers, I think he said his name was Justin in rehearsal, wiggled his eyebrows at me from under his bad wig and headband. It was so ridiculous, that—paired with his super white teeth contrasted with the orangey-bronze spray tan—it was too much. I hadn't come across a whole lot of Native Americans in Hollywood, but I knew this was too over the top to be thought of as authentic.
This was bad. Fabian's forehead vein was throbbing under his flowing locks with bleach-blond highlights.
I snorted, which sent me into another fit of giggles and then I started hiccupping.
"Avery! This shoot is already three days over budget, and you laugh and refuse to take me and my vision seriously," he whined with his French accent.
"I'm . . . I . . ." My laughter was so unhinged I couldn't even form an apology.
"You mock me!" He threw his clipboard onto the floor and charged out of the studio warehouse where we built the forest set for my music video.
I should've run after him and apologized to smooth things over. My label pulled many strings to get him to direct this video last minute for me—a "gamble." Everything needed to be perfect. But I couldn't catch my breath and my eyes started to water. When was the last time I laughed so hard? That deep-belly, feel-it-in- your-toes laughter? I needed it. It had been guest performances on late-night talk shows, meet and greets with radio stations across the nation, and grinding in the studio to make sure each track hit like this single, for the past month.
It was all hard work and no sleep—many creative differences and debates on my sound and look—and it all culminated in this music video. And I looked like I belonged in a western created by Adam Sandler. My skimpy tan-hide two-piece bikini had feathers and beads hanging down like a flapper's fringe. This s*** was funny, and it wasn't supposed to be. In my delirious, lack-of-sleep state, it all seemed to be in bad taste. But everyone who held the purse strings loved it. I just wanted my own music video, and this was how I could get it. This was the launchpad for my solo career; I needed to pay my dues before I could take more creative control with my music.
Before I could extract myself from the group of barely covered male dancers, I heard a noise that could raise the dead.
My mother.
Excerpted from Love Is a War Song by Danica Nava. Copyright © 2025 by Danica Nava. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Excerpt: "To the Moon and Back" by Eliana Ramage
When we were on the Trail together, I took care of Meredith. Her chest was in constant movement, her breaths deep and labored. She acted her heart out, the bundled-up red-haired American Girl doll that was our baby pressed against the many shining buttons of her shirt.
In the second act, I broke the neck of a mockingbird with my bare hands—which was a metaphor, because you're not supposed to kill them—and I gave the whole thing to Meredith to eat. In turn, Meredith did whatever she could for our children.
Our two oldest, twins, died in the stockades in Georgia. Our third child died of scarlet fever in Alabama. When a soldier in Tennessee threatened to shoot our crying baby, Meredith accidentally smothered it.
After we buried it, just past intermission, Meredith blocked the whole third act so that her head lay against my chest as we walked. She had chosen that, not the drama teacher. It's possible she loves you, I told myself. I bought a chicken sandwich from Chick-fil-A and zipped it into the outside pocket of her backpack after our second performance. No note. It wasn't a mockingbird, but it was something.
At the end of the Trail, when our once-rowdy family had been reduced to the two of us, I took my first steps into Indian Territory with an inconsolable Meredith in my arms. She sobbed real tears, all three nights in our school auditorium, and grasped at my chest and my tattered collar as I held her like the baby she had accidentally smothered.
After each performance Meredith would kiss me, the first three kisses of my life. Each kiss was longer than the kiss the night before. The two of us were wrapped in the heavy black cloth of a backstage curtain, like a burrito, while the audience waited for us outside.
On the third night she took my hand in hers and pulled it under her mud-crusted trade shirt, under her bra even, and made the softest sound in the back of her throat, and I thought I'd die to hear it again—I thought this is the meaning of life, making someone make a sound like that, everything I'd done before this had been a waste—and then she left to collect her bouquet of grocery store flowers from f****** Daniel.
I felt downtrodden, like I'd just watched my children all die one by one before my wife ran off with someone else. Hadn't we been a team? Meredith and I were like the only survivors in a world of regular people. Who could understand the horrors we had seen?
After the play, when we were back in high school and barely spoke to each other except for times like when I, for example, dropped my most sophisticated choice of book on the floor in front of her so she'd stop walking and get down on her knees and hand it back to me, it was like the anguish of our shared past had ruined us and now we were divorced.
I tried to talk about it with her, once. We were worth talking about! We were breaking down the sets.
When Meredith reached for a hammer I reached for it, too, and held my hand so gently over hers. I looked at her with the saddest eyes I could muster. Eyes like, Did you love me? Do you? Will you again? Will anyone?
Meredith laughed and let go of the hammer. "You can have it; I'll go do props." Like that was what I wanted from her. A hammer.
"I'll miss you," I whispered, "with the play over and all."
She was supposed to say she'd miss me, too. Then we'd kiss. I had planned this all out in my head.
She said, "Yeah, it was fun!"
Maybe she didn't realize the chicken sandwich had been from me? Maybe she didn't get that a chicken was like a bird, which was like a mockingbird—which was a metaphor? I would kill all kinds of animals for her, not just birds, if she ever needed me to.
I tried again. Even quieter, though everyone else was working backstage and being loud. "I like you a lot," I said. "Might I take you to Chick-fil-A sometime?"
Meredith looked stricken.
"Or, um, to somewhere you pick? Somewhere more expensive? I have twenty dollars."
It was already a compromise, a far cry from us making out. But it took years to get to the moon landing. Some people worked toward it for so long that by the time it happened they were dead.
From TO THE MOON AND BACK by Eliana Ramage. Copyright © 2025. Reprinted by permission of Avid Reader Press, an Imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.