Page 7 of My Sister is Going to Kill Me

Liv turned and peered into the thin light. The long-haired guide was two switchbacks above them, having stayed behind to break down the coffee setup before hiking to the river. He was taking his time, ambling along in minimalist leather sandals that seemed better suited to a Greek island than a treacherous canyon trail.

“Looks like a goatherd to me,” Liv said.

Mandy grinned. “I like a little yodel now and then.”

“I don’t know, Mand. Pretty sure he’s ex-military.” Liv could see it in the way he cinched down his pack. “I’d guess Afghanistan. He got discharged, came out here to lose himself in nature, go commando, and forget. I’d steer clear.”

Mandy let out an exasperated sigh. “Can you not?”

“Not what?”

“Not do the whole profiler thing.”

Liv didn’t know what to say. She was a special investigator. It was her job. Her calling.

“I didn’t mean—” Liv wavered. “He could be great. I don’t know.”

She did know. No ex-soldier named Thor was a high-caliber draft pick.

“Whatever,” Mandy said.

They fell into silent trudging until they hit a small oasis halfway down. After five miles of bare rock and sky, here was a green breath of trees, a trickling creek, and simple wooden benches that called to Liv’s aching back.

“I have to take a break,” Liv said.

Mandy smiled at her indulgently. No huff, no sweat—as if this were just a morning stroll to the coffee shop. Liv didn’t get it. She hit the embassy gym three times a week, and she still couldn’t keep up with her little sister. Maybe the difference between thirty-one and thirty-four was bigger than she’d thought.

“Do you want me to take your pack?” Mandy asked.

“No!” It came out sharper than Liv intended. “I just need some water.”

Tired hikers were dotted around the rest area, squeezed into pockets of shade cast by a ribbon of cottonwood trees. Fiona, the doctor from LA, executed an intricate self-misting ritual with a spray bottle. Imogen played with her phone while her grandmother Lucinda fanned herself with her giant sun hat. The family resemblance was clear: Both women were wiry and birdlike, but in different ways. Imogen was a fuzzy, twitchy girl, her pale skin vibrating under a halo of long red hair. Lucinda, on the other hand, was tanned and sinewy, a wild turkey of a woman. Cute little chick. Tough old bird. Liv wondered who had mapped the milestones of human female development to an avian set of axes. Some man, she figured.

The two Canadian women weren’t the only ones with a connection. Between the individual pantomimes of self-care, Liv watched the other guests steal glances at each other. No one approached. No one talked. But they were all looking. Waiting. For what, Liv couldn’t guess.

“Mandy?” Liv tried to keep her voice as casual as possible. “I don’t think you ever told me exactly how you got us on this trip.”

Mandy didn’t look up from the raven’s feather she was braiding into her hair. “Pretty sure I did.”

“Remind me.”

“Well . . . maybe you noticed some folks have wristbands with a B on them.”

“Uh-huh.”

“The B’s for Babette.”

“Who’s Babette?”

“You really do live under a rock, don’t you?”

“If by rock you mean a series of foreign government installations of critical importance to our nation’s geopolitical standing—”

“Babette Botanique is a natural skin care line. It’s named after a woman. An amazing woman. Babette Sauvage.”

Mandy pronounced the name proudly, as if simply saying it was a kind of triumph.

Every time Liv came back stateside, there was a new craze that took her by surprise. One year it was pickleball. Another time it was boba tea. Now, apparently, it was a skin care company that offered river trips on the side.