“Mmm. I could speculate, but if I do, you’ll remind me that I’m not a doctor.”
She shoots a hard look my way as we continue toward the lake. As I tell her my theory, I leave out the “fell on a branch” part. That’s where I’m most likely to be mistaken, and part of me will always be the little girl who doesn’t want to look foolish in front of her big sister.
It doesn’t help that April’s autism means she has no problem making me feel foolish. I know that’s not her fault, but a diagnosis thirty years late doesn’t undo the damage. I grew up with parents who always made me feel not quite up to snuff, intellectually, and a sister who didn’t realize that every time she “made allowances for my diminished mental capacity,” I felt stupid and useless. It was hard to make anyone understand that when my IQ put me well above average. I just wasn’t a genius like the rest of my family.
“Does that make sense?” she says when I finish my theory.
I tense. “Does … what make sense?”
“That she fell and injured her stomach.”
There are a lot of things I hate my parents for, but this tops the list—that they knew April was on the spectrum and ignored it because, to them, it meant their child was broken. Yes, if I’m being charitable, I’ll admit that maybe they thought this was best for April. Treat her as if she were neurotypical and refuse to allow her to be labeled or otherwise held back. In the end, though, it led to a woman who spent her life feeling different and blaming it on herself.
One of our residents, K
enny, has an autistic brother, and when he talks to April, I swear it’s like seeing someone speak a language I never learned, a language I desperately want to master. When April questions whether my theory makes sense, it sounds combative, and my hackles rise, even as a voice inside me says that’s not how she means it.
I take a deep breath and explain that, with the rough terrain and the endless slopes—foothills and mountains and valleys—one of the biggest dangers isn’t falling off an edge, but losing your footing and sliding.
“One of the residents died from that in the nineties,” I say. “He slipped on a muddy slope and impaled himself on a branch. Before that, a woman had to be rushed into emergency surgery for a punctured lung after falling on her own walking stick.”
“I am well aware of the past cases, Casey. I’m the town doctor. I have the files.”
Deep breath. “Yes, but they’re very old cases, and I wouldn’t expect you to read them, much less remember them.”
“Others perhaps. Not us,” she says with a sniff, and I do not fail to miss that “us.” One inclusive word that has the little girl inside me dancing with glee.
We reach the lake and start across it.
“My point,” April continues, “is that I believe there are far more rational explanations for the abdominal injury.”
That inner child sags. “Uh-huh.”
“Have you considered the fact she may have been attacked by her companion?”
“Sure, that’s a possibility but—”
“Shot perhaps? Or knifed?”
“Knifed?” That is not a word my sister uses. “Okay, those are possibilities, but I prefer to start with the ones that don’t involve crazed companions—”
“He—or she—doesn’t have to be crazed. The isolation drove them to lash out, perhaps over the last piece of chocolate.” A glance my way. “I’m sure you could appreciate that.”
I laugh more than the joke warrants. Attempting humor is a new thing for my sister, and we may overencourage her, rather like showering Storm with praise when she picks up a difficult scent trail. April would love that comparison.
Before I can answer, April continues, “It might also be a mountain man, who attacked her in her sleep. Or perhaps she was part of a group, friends who had a falling-out, and she is the lone survivor. It could have been sexual jealousy. Two friends both coveting the same lover, and when one is spurned for the other, the spurned lover—”
“—massacres the group. All except her. As we’ll soon discover, though, she wasn’t the lone survivor. She was the killer.”
“That is a very good theory. We’ll have to be careful.”
I bite my lip and struggle to keep a straight face. With anyone else, I’d presume they were mocking me. My own theory sounds outlandish, so they come up with even more outlandish ones. Except mockery, like humor, is not part of my sister’s DNA. Her words can cut deeper than any sword, but they are spoken in honesty. Harsh truth.
“You’re enjoying those mystery novels you borrowed from the library, aren’t you,” I say, apropos of absolutely nothing.
“They are a much more pleasant way to pass the time than I imagined. Isabel is correct that a mental break is useful for lowering stress, but what I feared would be a frivolous waste of my time has turned into quite the mental challenge. Piecing together the clues, avoiding the trap of the red herring, identifying the killer…”
“A lot more fun to read about than to actually do for a living.”