When they pulled him out of the ravine, he was in suspiciously good shape. A couple zits on his face, a sprained thumb, a torn earlobe shiny with pus — clearly not a recent injury, but a festering infection. And breathing, thank god, despite his insistence that his inhaler was still down there somewhere. The paramedic had a spare in the ambulance.
“Why?” asked the detective, the wind tearing through the back of her Oxford shirt.
“Why is my inhaler in the ravine? I dunno, probably fell out of the car.”
“I mean, why did you drive into the ravine?”
“Oh, that,” he scratched his head, wincing as his damaged thumb caught in the tangle of his hair. “Saw it in a movie,” he shrugged.
She wasn’t buying it, he could tell. But it’s hard to tell your sister, a private detective, why you decided to pull off the road and into the airy abyss hanging over Settlers Gorge late on a sunny Tuesday afternoon with an inhaler of albuterol in one pocket and your great uncle’s silver baby rattle in the other. He patted the fabric surreptitiously: Yep, it was still there. The secret their Gran had bestowed on him upon her abrupt move to Wisconsin dairy country was still safe from her eldest granddaughter, and he intended to keep it that way from his gumshoe sibling.