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contributes to the stigmatization of people with MRS in SeCa.
    Yes, it’s true that the subconscious exchange of dissonant micro-expressions can provoke unsettling feelings in some people, but it takes an extraordinary sensitivity to perceive them. The popular myth that anyone can spot someone with MRS is blatantly false.
    —Statement by Dr. Laura Tammet, the Eastmore family’s neuroscience advisor (1998)
    Semiautonomous California
    23 February 1991

    Granma Cynthia’s mouth dropped open, but only for a moment. “Jefferson was murdered ? That’s an antiquated word and entirely inappropriate at a funeral. How can you say such a thing?”
    Victor stared down at the grass. If he had a tail, it would be curling between his legs. “His face looked . . . His skin looked . . . corroded. Hair thinned.” He looked up, trying his best to shape a complete sentence. “Did he say anything before he died? Anything suspicious?”
    Granma Cynthia shook her head. “We’ve done so much for you over the years, Victor. It’s such a shame when you get like this. I know it’s not your fault, it’s your condition . . .” Tears welled in her eyes. “Of course, I noticed how sick he looked. He always explained it away. For heaven’s sake, he was the doctor.”
    Victor said, “But—”
    Granma Cynthia cut him off with a wave of her hand and stalked toward the mausoleum. Then she stopped and turned, raising her chin and drawing a long breath. “Jefferson would know how to snap you out of this delusion, but I don’t. It was a viral infection, Victor. Something he picked up on his travels.” She smiled faintly. “He made a big show of taking his medication. Three times a day. He made a joke of it.”
    Granma Cynthia gazed far away, and her face softened as if she were remembering happier times. Mimicking Granfa Jeff’s tone precisely, she said, “‘We haven’t tamed all the diseases of the world, not yet,’ he said.”
    She left him and disappeared around the corner of the mausoleum.
    Victor felt pinned to the spot. The weight of what he’d just said sank him. He wanted to bury himself and inhale raw dirt until his lungs bled. Why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut?
    He told himself to snap out of it. Useless. It wouldn’t be a mental illness if he could control it, would it?
    Clumps of mist wandered like ghosts over folds in the hills, soon to evaporate and vanish. That lunatic Samuel Miller would think the mist shifted from this world to the next.
    Mason Charter, Jefferson Eastmore’s rival in business and a college-era friend, strode through the mausoleum’s doorway. He scanned the surroundings, spotted Victor, and approached.
    “A fine performance,” he said.
    Victor blushed. Everyone must be talking about how he’d collapsed on his granfa’s coffin.
    “Not you, son. I’m talking about your grandfather.”
    “What do you mean?”
    Mason, a towering bulk, white as could be, and wrinkled, leaned toward Victor. “He didn’t fool me. He played the patient well. But I’ve known Jeff for decades. I always knew when he was bluffing.”
    “Bluffing? You mean playing tricks?”
    “I judge a man by his actions. He may have tried to put on a brave face, but he was panicked, desperate even. What would cause a man who spent his life building an empire to hack it to pieces in his final months? That’s what I want to know.”
    Victor asked, “Do you think he was murd — ”
    Mason quieted Victor with a hand on his mouth. “Shhh. Let it go for now,” Mason whispered, nodding at the MeshNews van and crew waiting at the end of the lane. “Whatever Jefferson was hiding will come out in time.” He turned and walked toward the parking lot.
    Victor felt lighter. He wasn’t the only one with suspicions. He would talk to Mason later and ask him what he —
    A scream flew across the lawn. And then another, from around the corner of the mausoleum.
    Victor ran, turned the corner, and found Granma Cynthia. Her