by Sarah Fine
Dr. Dietrich attempts to soothe his daughter, shushing her in low tones. “You saved her, Hannah. She’s alive because of you.”
“But what about the next time? She scares me so much. Even Franka can’t keep her safe. Or you guys. And you travel so much.”
“I’ll try to rework my schedule a little,” says Dr. Dietrich. “But I have this trip to France with Maeve in August that I can’t cancel.”
“I know, and I don’t want you to! But maybe . . . sometimes I wonder if she shouldn’t . . . I don’t know. Aren’t there places people go for treatment? Places that can take care of people like CC?”
“I’m working on this,” Dr. Dietrich says. He is frowning.
“Maeve doesn’t believe me, does she?”
“Look, this is thin ice for me, okay? She’s so protective of Cora—CC?”
Hannah nods, and Dr. Dietrich continues.
“Look, this is between us, but I think Maeve feels guilty for what happened to CC when she was little. That wasn’t CC’s fault.”
“It wasn’t Maeve’s, either!” says Hannah.
“Oh, trust me, I know. I mean, what kind of a man does that to a little girl? Getting that judge to terminate his parental rights might be the best thing I’ve ever done.”
“You’re such a good dad. I know I’m lucky.”
Dr. Dietrich bows his head. “You had a pretty good mom, too,” he says quietly.
“I know. You still miss her, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. I always will. Maeve understands that.”
“I wonder what she would think of me, if she could see me now.”
“She’d be so proud of you,” says Dr. Dietrich. “She’d be honored to have you as a daughter, like I am. But Hannah, even though I want you to look out for CC, I want you to know that you’re not responsible for her choices. You worry about yourself, and let me and Maeve take care of your sister.”
“But I worry about CC, Dad. I have ever since she moved in.” Hannah’s tone reflects ambiguous signals. Caring but also anger. Bitterness.
“I just want you to be okay,” he says.
“I just want CC to be okay,” Hannah says. “I do.”
End of vid capture, 2:37 p.m., July 5, 2069
Chapter Eleven
We stand on the widow’s walk, the wind tickling our backs, but I feel like I’m up there on the railing again, about to fall. I can’t believe what I just said. I was never supposed to say that out loud.
Rafiq holds me, and he is so warm. He doesn’t need to breathe, but he’s breathing, his chest moving just like a real person’s. For me, for now, he is real. He strokes my hair. “I’ve got you. Feel whatever you need to feel,” he murmurs.
I press into him, letting his contours distract me from all the things that terrify me. I shiver as he draws his fingers along my cheek.
He kisses my forehead.
For a moment, I freeze, confused, startled, cold and hot at the same time. Then I sigh and close my eyes. “Do that again.”
He hesitates. And then he does. “Like that?”
I nod. The feeling of his lips on my skin is perfect—strong enough to push everything else away.
“You were remembering something.”
“Shut up,” I whisper.
He chuckles. “No.” He kisses my forehead a third time. “But I’m not going to let anything hurt you. It’s safe to think about it.”
I want that to be true. “You can’t protect me. Everything’s happened already. The damage is done.”
“You mean it’s all in your head, the memories, how it’s rewired things.” He looks down at me. “And that’s what I’m here to help with. That’s my whole reason for being.”
“Your reason for being.”
“I was created for a specific purpose. You know that.”
Does he sound sad? I’m so terrible at figuring these things out even in humans, and he doesn’t give me much to go on. “So if I don’t get better . . .”
“Don’t worry about me. That’s not why I said that. I simply said it because it’s true.”
“Okay. Can we go down now? I hate it up here.”
“Why?”
I sag in his arms. “Please. I hate it so much.”
“Your profile indicates no fear of heights.”
“It’s the noise.”
“The noise here is well within acceptable parameters.”
He’s looking at me. Listening to the prisoner locked behind my ribs. “Oh,” he says. His grip on my body tightens. “Franka, open the door, please.”
The door slides open, and Rafiq keeps his arm around me as we descend the spiral staircase and end up in the little gallery on the fourth floor. The paintings in here are all of Paris in the rain, all done by Hannah’s mom, Naomi. Her art hangs throughout the house, but the walls of this room are absolutely covered with her work. Hannah used to paint in here sometimes. She said she wanted to be close to her mom.
Maybe that’s where she is now.
Oh, god. I swallow spit and something worse, sour and bitter.
I sit on a couch, and Rafiq moves close. I could slide into his lap and kiss him, and I am tempted to do it, because it’s the only thing that will save me from thinking of her face. I wonder what his mouth would taste like.
He touches his lips as he sees me staring at them. “Are you all right?”
I swallow again. “We left the kite up there.”
“It’s less important than your well-being, Cora. Now, tell me why you said you hated Hannah.”
I look down at my lap, at my thighs spread across the cushions. “I didn’t mean that. I loved her.”
He remains quiet and I squirm, then mutter, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Can you love someone and hate her at the same time? Isn’t that possible?”
I shrug one shoulder. “You tell me. You’re the therapist.”
“You’re working so hard to avoid the truth, Cora, to the point where you’re claiming you don’t have any memories. But they’re in there, and they’re hurting you. You’re fighting so hard, but I can see that you’re tired.” He tips my chin up with gentle fingertips. God, he is so, so handsome. Makes Finn look like a sad substitute. “Everything you say is safe with me. Every part of you is safe, if you let me in.”
“I want that to be true,” I whisper.
“Then let it be true,” he murmurs, leaning closer.
If I move forward just slightly, I could kiss him. I don’t know if that’s what I want. I mean, my body wants it. I can feel the tingle and the tightening. But it’s so weird. I’m so weird. Why am I thinking about this? Why am I thinking this way about a canny?
“Tell me about Hannah,” he says.
Oh. Yeah. That’s why. I pull away. “She’s dead.”
“I know. But in your mind, she is very much alive.”
He’s right. “I don’t know what to say,” I mumble.
“Tell me one thing you remember about her.”
“Good or bad?”
“Your choice.”
“She had short hair.”
“Like yours?”
I shudder as a sudden chill runs through me. “No. I don’t look like her. We looked nothing alike.”
“Tell me more about what she looked like.”
“Can’t you just look at a picture or watch some of the vids on her Mainstream channel?”
“I want to know what she looks like to you in here,” he says, touching my temple, just a brush of skin on skin. Or . . . plastic on skin? Biosynth polymers on skin? I don’t know what he’s made of. I only know it feels real. I grab his hand and peer at it.
“You have fingerprints.”
“I do. But we were talking about Hannah’s appearance, not mine.”
I close my eyes. “She was beautiful. Just . . . so, so pretty. I’ve seen pictures of her mom, and she looked like her. Gary’s eye color, maybe, but her mom’s everything else. She was so cute with her short hair. I loo
k like an idiot.”
“You cut your hair yourself, didn’t you?”
“I couldn’t stand it anymore,” I say, my voice breaking. “But Hannah always had short hair, the whole time I knew her.”
“We have established she was pretty. And you think she was prettier than you are. That’s how it seems in your head.”
I gape at him. “No, that’s how it is.” I clench my fists. “How it was.”
“Were you jealous of her?”
“No. She was wonderful. She was so nice. How could I be jealous?”
“Easily. Maybe more easily than if she were horrible.”
My brain is a swamp, and it’s too murky to think clearly, to hide and show in the right way. I’m terrible at this game. “She was wonderful,” I repeat, just to be saying words.
“If she was so wonderful, why did you tell me you hated her sometimes? Why did you tell me you wanted her to die?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Shall I play back my vid feed?”
I raise my head and look at him. “I really said that?”
“And I believe you were telling the truth.”
“No, no, I didn’t mean it. I don’t know why I said it.”
“Maybe because your relationship was more complicated than you want to admit.”
My hands are balled in my shirt now. My body is a confused traffic pattern, everything bumping up against something else, no part sure which way to move, every thought a near miss. “I ruined her life.”
“How? What makes you that powerful?”
His question suggests I couldn’t possibly be. I want that to be true. “Maybe I’m not. But I made her sad. All the time. I think I messed up her relationship with her boyfriend. And I made her cry. I scared her.” Each word hurts as it tunnels out of my throat.
“Did you mean to scare her?”
Sometimes. Oh, god, sometimes I wanted to tear her apart. I wanted her to flinch and cower because she knew what I was capable of. “No. Never. I always felt bad afterward.” That last part, at least, is true.
“What did you do to scare her?”
“I just got mad sometimes.”
“Why?”
“Because she made me mad.”
“How did she do that?”
It feels like an interrogation. “I’m tired,” I say and rub my eyes. As I do, my message light flashes. Neda has commed me.
Haven’t heard from you. Chat later?
Escape.
“Rafiq, can I go to my room?”
“Of course, Cora,” he says. He takes my hand and pulls me up so I’m facing him. He doesn’t let go of my hand as he says, “I’m so amazed by your bravery.”
“Huh?”
“I can tell that talking about any of this is terrifying for you, and yet you did it.”
“I told you Hannah had short hair.”
One corner of his mouth rises in a half smile. It makes me tingle again. “We had to start somewhere.” Slowly, he moves closer, and I stop breathing. “Thank you,” he whispers, and this time he doesn’t kiss my forehead.
His mouth is wet. And warm. Real. His breath smells like mint. How is that possible? My hands are at his sides, and I feel his waist and the hard muscles there. Are they muscles or just a mold, a shape, pretend? I don’t really care anymore. It’s all I can do not to shove my hands under his shirt.
“Your heart is racing,” he murmurs when he raises his head. “Are you having another memory?”
I shake my head, too breathless to speak. He wraps his arms around me and hugs me. Our bodies are pressed together. “What does this feel like to you?” I ask.
He is quiet for so long that my eyes sting. But then his arms squeeze me a little tighter. “It feels good.” He releases me, blinking. “I will let you go now.”
I backtrack toward the door. “Are you coming?”
He turns away. “I will check in on you later. Is that all right?”
“Did I just mess this up?”
He looks over his shoulder. “I’m afraid I did.”
I bite my lip as my eyes trace him, looking for the proof that he’s not real, the proof that will turn off the things I’m thinking and wanting. “It felt good to me, too,” I say, and then I grab the doorframe and lurch through it, needing cold water to extinguish the flames on my cheeks.
By the time I reach the second-floor landing, I hear my mother’s voice coming from the foyer. I pause at the top of the steps, first because I don’t want my mom to see me all flushed and confused and without Rafiq at my side, but then because I hear another voice, one that sounds vaguely familiar.
“Dr. Dietrich did notify me that she’d been discharged from the hospital, and as requested, I provided a few days for her to readjust to being home,” says the voice. I select the voice-recognition function on my Cerepin and put it to work.
It’s the detective investigating Hannah’s fall. Ignacia Reyes from the DC police department.
Oh, god.
“She’s really not ready to see anyone,” Mom is saying. “Did my husband also tell you that she made a serious suicide attempt at school on Monday?”
“He speculated that she might have been trying to avoid speaking with me.”
“If that’s true, then he and I will need to have a little chat,” Mom says, and I want to cheer, because her voice is cold and hard and scary.
“I don’t mean to create stress in your household, Mrs. Dietrich. I have been as sensitive as possible to the needs of your living daughter. But the fact remains that your stepdaughter’s death is still under investigation, and as the only witness to the event, Cora is a person of interest. Dr. Dietrich also informed me that there was tension in the girls’ relationship, which is something you left out when we initially spoke with you.”
“Right, and I’m sure it’s a total mystery why, in the hours after losing Hannah, I wouldn’t be robotic in my recall of every detail you might find relevant to your case.”
Mom’s tone could freeze magma right now.
“Mrs. Dietrich, I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I do need to talk with Cora soon, though. Surely you understand that I’m simply trying to do my job and to make sure justice is done for Hannah.”
Mom is quiet for a few seconds. “Yes, I understand that, Detective Reyes. I’m sorry.”
“No need for apologies, ma’am. But could you tell me when would be a good time to speak with Cora?”
“I’ll need to talk to her therapist, and to my husband. We’ll be in contact with you very soon.”
“Before the end of the week?”
“Soon.”
Another pause. “All right then. You know how to contact me.”
“I surely do. Thanks for dropping by.” I think her tone says the opposite.
After I hear the front door close, I wait for a few seconds before heading down the stairs. Mom is still standing in the foyer, and she notices me when I’m halfway down. “Were you listening to that?” she asks.
I nod. “Thanks for looking out for me.”
She comes over to me and gives me a quick hug. “I know you’re not ready yet, but you’ll have to talk to her, honey.”
“Why? I already told you everything I remember.”
“But she’s the detective. She’s responsible for the official investigation.”
Which probably means she’ll interview me while cross-referencing my responses with all sorts of neuro- and bio-indicators to determine whether I’m lying. I can’t do that. It doesn’t matter what I say. I’m a mess all the time, and it’ll say I’m lying, and then that’s it—I’ll be taken away. “Mom, please,” I whisper.
She takes me by the shoulders and looks into my eyes. “Why are you so scared to talk to her?”
I shake my head.
Her eyes shine with tears. “Honey?” she asks, her voice cracking. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”
I jerk back. “Seriously? Like what?”
“I don’t know! I understo
od why you didn’t want to talk to the police right after everything happened, and your doctors agreed that you should be left alone. But now? You asked to go to school this morning. You said you were better. Why would you avoid this unless—”
“So you’re like Gary now. You think I pushed her or something?”
Mom’s eyes grow wide. “No, I don’t, and neither does he! How could you even suggest that?”
I take a few steps back. “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask your husband? It’s so obvious that he doesn’t believe me.”
“Cora, we’ve been over this—”
“I’m not talking to the detective. I can’t. Tell her I have nothing to say.” I don’t look at her face as I walk quickly across the foyer and down the hall to my room, my heartbeats an earthquake in my chest.
I slam my door and flop onto my bed. I wish I could turn Franka’s privacy settings back on, but right now it’s pointless to ask, so I’m just going to have to be very careful about what I say, how I say it. “Reply,” I say while focusing on Neda’s message. “I’m here. Send.”
Finally! What’s going on?
“Apparently, Mom thinks I murdered Hannah. Send.” I blow out a long breath, trying to slow my body down. My feet rub hard against my sheets.
Ha! Right, Neda replies. But do you want to meet for coffee or something?
“Can’t. I’m stuck here at the house with Rafiq. Send.”
Rafiq. Huh. Then can we com live?
“Com Neda,” I say, and a moment later her face appears in my visual field. She’s in her room at her house, her makeup table behind her, the mirror screen dark, her bed covered in fluffy pillows, her hijab a sunny yellow, her face immaculate. “Sometimes I wonder why you want to be my friend.”
She grins. “Because you’re honest and real and you’ll defend my honor to the death?”
I can’t help but smile. “I’ve really missed you.”
“So, this thing with your mom thinking you . . .”
“Can’t talk about it here.” Franka’s recording every word I say.
She nods, obviously understanding. “So why are you stuck at home with a dude named Rafiq?”
“He’s my . . . Neda, it’s so weird.” I lower my voice and turn over on my stomach, looking down at my right index finger, where the self-cam chip is implanted.