I have always been a fan of sister stories, the fates, the furies, MacBeth’s weird witches. And since Disney stole my Norse goddess-sister theme from under my nose (thanks a lot Frozen) I am now embroiled in a sister saga that takes place in the very stark location — the desert Southwest.
Based loosely on the Daphne and Chloe myth (lost infants raised by wolves), my hippie-raised thirty or forty-somethings are not star-destined lovers, but sisters who have drifted apart. The younger, Chloe, has gone down to Georgia as an investigative reporter and is bringing up her own daughter as a single parent. The other sister, Daphne, who as a teenager was the bolder of the two, has in adulthood has fallen off the grid.
Always the investigator, Chloe goes in search of the lost older sis, but finds a trail so bizarre (wandering junkies, bike gang members and new age priests), it appears no one knew Daphne at all. She appears, in fact, to have staged her own death. A gravestone with her name on it sits, freshly laid, in a small town Indiana cemetery, and her husband believes fully that her death was legitimate.
But not so Chloe. She follows a lead to a yoga spa in Utah, and from there branches to Arizona, Texas and Nevada, discovering some strange, dangerous and otherworly phenomena that link the sisters together in new and complicated ways.