Kirkus
Copyright © Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

An ugly duckling’s ruminations on her swanlike older sister’s disappearance unleash a flurry of emotional responses but no resolution. The last time Georgene Fulmer saw her sister, at 7:20 the morning of April 11, 1991, she didn’t even see her directly but rather doubly reflected in a pair of mirrors. Wherever Marguerite Fulmer went when she left their house in Aurora-on-Cayuga, New York, it wasn’t to Aurora College, where she taught sculpting and served as a junior artist in residence, and by evening, her father, stockbroker Milton Fulmer, persuaded the police to label her a missing person. Their investigation predictably goes nowhere, and the inquiries of Leo Drummard, the private eye Milton hires, add nothing but some expensive hotel bills. In the meantime, Georgene, who privately gloats that “I know what I know, that none of you will ever know,” has years to reflect on her complicated relation to the sister who sailed through college and landed several prestigious fellowships while Georgene languished as a postal clerk. Or maybe it wasn’t so complicated: “I hated her and would never forgive her.” Did Marguerite run off to avoid the unwanted attentions of stolid research biologist Walter Lang? Did she fall victim to the Wolf’s Head Lake Killer, who confesses to murdering a dozen area women? Or was she killed by her own sister, as one especially hallucinatory section suggests? Whatever her fate, she seems likely to live on only in the shockingly explicit paintings of Elke, ne Howard Strucht, the preening senior artist in residence who brought her to Aurora, and in Georgene’s troubled, essayistic reflections within reflections. A kaleidoscopic portrait of an unforgettable woman whose memory everyone honors only by distorting it. Copyright © Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.