by Susan Wingate
You have Asperger’s Syndrome. You hate the name of this syndrome. You also stopped using drugs six months ago and now your best friend, Winsey, is dead. And your cat, Lester keeps pooping on the floor—it’s a riddle, wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. And eff no, you don’t use the F-word, even when you find out Winsey was killed. You suspect the gargoyle who was sniffing around at the bar the night before, the last time you saw her alive.