Page 81 of My Sister is Going to Kill Me

“Stefan Eriksen,” Guy said. “I’m the one who introduced Babette to him originally. Two nights ago, in Vegas, Babette told me she was afraid her lead investor was trying to take her company. We thought if I came down here, I could help stop him. I thought he could be reasoned with. Obviously, I was wrong.”

“Stefan,” Mandy whispered excitedly, looking back up the beach. “He didn’t want to call the cops.”

“Neither did Dad,” Liv pointed out. “And Babette didn’t threaten Stefan.”

“But maybe the hats weren’t really from Babette,” Mandy said. “Maybe Stefan wrote the messages to distract everyone, to point fingers at someone else. Charlie said Stefan was on his own for some of the hike back from Thunder Spring, remember? Maybe he killed Babette then.”

“He would have had to get extremely lucky on timing,” Liv said. “And why would Stefan need to kill her to take over her company? It sounded like he was already colluding with Charlie and Devon on something like that.”

“You wanted the truth,” Guy said. “Stefan represents a lot of money. A lot of power. And power protects itself. That’s the truth.”

“Makes sense to me,” Mandy said. “What do you think?”

Liv stared at her dad and sister, their arms still linked. Part of her wanted to believe them. To join them. It would be easier that way. But telling stories was what they did, especially when the truth was messy, dangerous, or unflattering.

“I don’t know,” she said softly.

Guy gazed at her for a moment, then gave her one sharp, dismissive shake of the head. “Come on, Mandy. Your sister isn’t going to make them trust me. We have to do it without her.”

Liv watched her father and sister turn and head back up to the rest of the group. She wanted to cry. She wanted to run away. She wanted to ford the river and storm up to the North Rim and grill Marc on exactly what he’d witnessed. She’d thought Mandy was on the same team with her, the two of them working together to find the truth in this convoluted canyon of deceit. But Mandy was her father’s daughter. She and Guy would always choose whatever story served them best.

Guy strode to the center of the circle of camping chairs and raised the mostly empty can of lager in his hand. “If I could get all of your attention,” he announced. Even Liv found herself moving toward his loud, authoritative voice. “I’d like to propose a toast. To Babette.”

Fiona glared at him. “First, I’d like to know why she brought you down here.”

“Babette trusted me,” Guy said. “She knew me.”

PK sniffed. “If you really knew her, you’d know a beer is no way to honor her memory.”

“You’re right.” Guy nodded eagerly at the young man. “Absolutely right. If we’re going to salute the queen, we’ve got to do it with royal jelly.”

Liv had no idea where her dad was taking this, but that was the rub of it. This was his production now. He wasn’t here to answer questions or tell the whole truth or help figure out what happened to Babette. He was here to put on a show. And he did it disgustingly well—conjuring curiosity and desire, making everyone his complicit audience, waiting to hear what he would say next.

“PK!” Guy said. “When times get tough, what do we hope for? When our house is torn apart, when we’re lost in the wilderness, when our loved ones abandon us: What do we wish, against all odds, that we could do?”

When the young man didn’t answer, Guy smiled. “Let. Your. Worries,” he said, directing each word to a new person in the circle. “Wash away.”

“No,” Charlie said. “Stop. This is a nightmare. It is not an advertisement for CareFree.”

“But don’t you see? It is. This is exactly what Babette would have wanted. For us to turn to the revolutionary power of CareFree to give us peace at this time.”

“Absolutely not.” Liv had to step forward. “You’ve all been drinking. And from what I understand, CareFree has neurochemical effects.”

“It’s perfectly safe,” Devon said.

“It would ease the pain,” Fiona said.

“With a lot fewer calories than those margaritas,” PK muttered.

“I’ll try anything twice,” Thor said.

Before Liv could issue any further protest, PK had dragged his soft cooler over to the circle. Even Imogen, who’d seemed lost in a catatonic state of grief and fear, perked up when he pressed one of the white tubs into her hand. When Liv tried to brush PK off, he insisted.

“It’s for Babette,” he said.

She shoved the container deep in her pocket.

“Is there a protocol for how to use it?” Imogen had already whipped out her phone.