And now, after 27 years, besides this illness, he seemed free from any severe complications.
A dreadful suspicion began to gnaw at me, sending a shiver down my spine.
My phone buzzed—it was another picture from Katie, the same wild party scene.
In the center, a guy clutched an ice block, poised to jump into a pool, his face a mask of exhilaration.
"Sis, you really think this guy doesn't look like John?"
"Remember the burn scar on John's ankle from that accident when we were kids? Look, this guy in the picture has one too."
I zoomed in on the man's ankle as Katie suggested. Indeed, there was a scar, adorned with a tiny bat tattoo.
John detested bats; he'd always said they were vile, disease-ridden creatures.
I remembered John always having a gentle smile, despite his pale complexion.
"I said it's not him, Miss Sherlock," I texted back.
Katie replied with a sassy smirk emoji.
After drying off, a friend video-called to ask how my chat with Alex went.
I shook my head at her through the screen, "I'm not feeling it. He was all over my brother's diagnosis right from the start. Who knows his case better than me, after all?"