Here one minute—poof—gone the next. Had she merely bumped into a new group of protesters and marched off into the sunset, all primed to right another wrong? Or was there something more sinister to her second disappearance after talking to Bob Germaine? As we drove from the hospital to Kenny Gilbert’s place, I gazed out the car window at the water trickling along the gutters into drains, at the tarmac still wet from the storm of yesterday, and tried to compare a picture of the present Liz with the baby sister I’d grown up with and loved. Images of Liz at six with a bloodied nose after intervening when a bully twice her size had tied a tin can to the tail of one of the local cats. The bully had pulled her hair and punched her in the nose but although busy letting off a series of earsplitting screams, Liz had still managed to untie the can before the cat took off up the nearest tree. I sighed. Guess my little sister had always tried to right life’s wrongs. And yes, I loved her but was no closer to finding her.
