by Dahlia Adler
Do you trust me? I’d asked, and he had smiled.
The best kind of thieves are the kind who don’t smash windows or pick locks. They charm their way inside, leaving no trace of forced entry. It was how Duvall himself stole the tattoo. He’d proven more elusive than the Feds gave him credit for.
I felt a crinkle of paper in my pocket. It was the note that had been left on my back—that ridiculous prank some tech-head had thought would be fun to play on the new intern. For all of my intelligence, I hadn’t noticed the paper until Adriana plucked it from between my shoulder blades.
My fingers smoothed out the paper.
Where does one hide something?
In plain sight.
* * *
It was truly a night for break-ins.
This second home invasion wasn’t difficult; college dorms have never been known for their security. All it took was a cut wire here and a fire exit there. I slipped in through a window, grimacing as I climbed over a bookshelf and narrowly dodged a vase filled with fake flowers. My ankle caught a book, and it clattered to the floor. I scrambled for it.
A light flicked on. The illumination pierced my gaze, and I blinked painfully.
A slim figure stood in the doorway, holding a cricket bat. She gaped at me. “Augusta, what are you doing here?” asked Adriana. She didn’t sound precisely accusing—more confused.
I let out a breath. This was the difficult part.
“My name isn’t Augusta.”
At that, she went still. I watched the thoughts play out behind her eyes. “But your tattoo,” she started to say, “I’ve seen you scan it and—”
I let her go on. Until her voice trailed to nothing.
For the first time since we’d met, I saw fear ripple across Adriana’s features.
“You’re a wraith,” she breathed. It felt like our fragile friendship hung suspended between us, waiting for one word to shatter it.
“Yes,” I said.
She took a step backwards and stumbled against her fridge. “You’re here—you’re—”
“It’s not whatever you’re thinking,” I said, rushed. “I’m not—it’s not like—”
I knew what people said about wraiths. They were resurrected soldiers and assassins, spies and saboteurs. They weren’t teenage girls with painted nails and half smiles. Which was the point—no one ever suspected someone like me.
There have always been people in the shadows. In the past, they’ve been called informants or intelligence. In more recent years, they’ve been contractors. People who can do what the law cannot.
Wraiths.
Adriana’s lips were bloodless, and I realized it was the first time I’d seen her without that swipe of lipstick. Her mouth seemed smaller without it. “The car accident. You—”
Died.
She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to. I was serving that sentence: all ten years of it.
Four years down—six to go.
I reached up. She flinched, but I merely tugged down my shirt collar. The scar ran down my chest. “My heart was crushed. It’s half synthetic now. Only beats because a machine reminds it to.”
I thought of telling her the rest—that my left cheek was slightly sharper than my right because it had been rebuilt. That only half of my ribs were the ones I’d been born with.
There are arguments about how a person is made. Some people think we’re born a certain way. That genetics dictate our desires and actions. Others say that we are shaped by the world around us.
I know exactly how Augusta Pine was made.
In a crumpled mass of metal with reservoir water streaming in the cracks.
“I was the one who reprogrammed that car. Got the first boy I ever liked killed,” I said. “And I died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Only woke up because I have a near-genius IQ and enough natural hacking skills that the government thought I might be useful.
“I can’t go home,” I said. I needed her to know this. I wasn’t sure why, but I needed it. “They think I’m dead, because I am. Who I was before the car accident—it’s gone. That tattoo and identity burned that day—and I’m working off my debt to society by catching criminals.”
Understanding flared in Adriana’s eyes. “You shouldn’t be telling me this,” she said. “Won’t you get in trouble?”
“If I do one final job,” I said, “if I can nail Duvall, they’ll reactivate my old identity. I could be myself again.”
Her eyes flicked back and forth between mine, as if searching for something. “He’s—he’s a criminal, isn’t he?” Another breath. “What did he do?”
“Stole a tattoo,” I said. “Belongs to NAME REDACTED. And he may have killed someone.”
She threw me a look. “What?”
This was the moment. I closed my eyes, gathered myself, then said, “Turn around and pull down the collar of your shirt.”
Adriana looked as incredulous as if I’d asked her to stand on her head.
“Do you trust me?” Those same words, spoken over pickled herring. She remembered them; I saw the indecision flicker in her expression.
“Turn around,” I said, “and pull down your collar.”
She hesitated; I watched her fingers tremble, but she did as I asked. Her shirt slid down, revealing the dimples of her spine and a smattering of freckles across her shoulders. Her hair was curly behind her ears, and it sent a painful little twinge through me. It was oddly vulnerable, that stray curl.
My necklace came free; I held the tiny scanner, and red light danced across Adriana’s skin. Half of me hoped it wouldn’t be there. That the scanner would meet only empty skin.
But the red light found pinpricks of ink between Adriana’s shoulder blades. It was nearly transparent, invisible to the naked eye.
The scanner beeped once in affirmation.
And two words flared across the metal.
NAME REDACTED.
She turned, saw the identity glowing on my scanner. I watched as every one of my emotions played across her face: confusion, understanding, and then fear.
“The tattoo—it’s stolen government property,” she whispered. “And—Duvall put it on me. W-when—”
“When you were drugged,” I said. “He probably slipped something into your drink and then applied the tattoo in the car.”
For a few moments, we simply stood there. I looked at the scanner, and then at Adriana. She was wearing loose pajamas in a bunnies print. My treacherous fingers yearned to reach out and stroke the soft flannel.
And then she said what I had been thinking.
“They won’t let me keep it.” She drew in a wobbly breath. “This has to be ridiculously confidential. I could get nuclear codes. I can’t—I’d be too much of a danger. Too much of a scandal.”
She took a breath, and then the last piece settled into place.
“Me,” she said flatly. “I’m the person Duvall killed.”
I didn’t reply. I didn’t have to.
The Feds wouldn’t admit to killing her. She’d just suffer an accident. A high fall, perhaps. Something painless—Prefect wouldn’t like it, but he’d sign off on it. His loyalty was to the government, not to human lives.
“You can go home,” she said quietly. “If you turn me in.”
It was true. I could have my old life back—all it would cost was hers.
In that moment, I hated them all: Prefect, Duvall, even NAME REDACTED. They played their power games, and it was people like Adriana who suffered.
“Do you want to run?” I asked. “You could do it. That tattoo has all kinds of security clearance.”
She hesitated then shook her head. “My—my family,” she began to say, and faltered.
I understood.
I’d spent four years living with the knowledge that I might never see my own family again; I’d considered it penance. But Adriana didn’t deserve my fate.
“Then I have a question,” I said.
Adriana looked at me. I read
my emotions in her face: fear, desperation, and a deep vein of anger. She’d need that anger, if she was going to survive.
“What?”
I said, “How do you feel about auto theft?”
* * *
Two young women walked into Atreus Partnership.
We did not break in because we did not have to—Adriana had the codes to stroll into Duvall’s office. He trusted her, not as a person, but as a lackey. As someone he could manipulate and control. It was why he’d put the tattoo on her; he thought he owned her.
I didn’t have to ask Adriana how she felt about that—I knew from personal experience.
It felt strange to slide into Duvall’s expensive desk chair, to set my fingers against his holographic keyboard and begin to type. But I fell into old rhythms; some things never changed.
“He’ll be headed home,” Adriana murmured. She stood at my side, her pale fingers knotted together. “He drinks at the same bar from seven to eight, then he goes home.”
Duvall’s company car was networked to Atreus Partnership with a series of firewalls and passwords; I slid through them the way a pick eases into a lock.
A grid of the city sprang up before me, along with a pinprick of light that indicated where Duvall’s car was headed.
“Call him,” I said to Adriana.
She hesitated, then made the call. She set her phone on the desk between us.
It rang once, and I heard the familiar timbre of Duvall’s voice. “What?”
“Hey, boss,” I said cheerfully.
There was a pause. “You’re not Adriana.”
“Very observant,” I replied. “I can see how you’ve accumulated such wealth. Your sharp mind is unparalleled.”
A shorter pause. “The new intern,” he said flatly. “You’re going to be fired for this. Stealing my assistant’s phone—”
“I didn’t steal it. But this—this I did steal.”
And at that moment, I plugged a new destination into the car’s autopilot.
It took him a few moments to get it. I imagined the fury on his face, the pinched line between his brows and his hard-knuckled fingers yanking at the steering wheel. First, he’d try the emergency shutdown. When that was unsuccessful, he’d try to unlock the car and leap out. I’d made sure neither option would work.
There was a thumping noise. “Trying to break a window now?” I said. “Good luck with that.”
There was a snarl of fury. “You’re going to pay. You’re—”
“A federal agent,” I said cheerfully.
The phone went silent.
“You’re lying,” he said.
“Oh, come on, Duvall.” I let out an ugly laugh. “You knew you were being investigated. That’s why you hid the tattoo on your assistant. Not a very good choice, by the way. She’s rather angry at you.”
“You can’t—”
“Let’s cut the bullshit,” I said. “Look around you, Duvall. Do you know where you are?”
I knew. At this moment, Duvall’s car had come to a stop in a public park—just beside a reservoir lake. I imagined how the night glow of the city lights would reflect off the water; it would be beautiful.
The car stopped with its tires just brushing the water.
I heard his sharp intake of breath.
“You have a choice,” I said. “First you run—and I mean, run. Tonight. Out of the country, away from Atreus Partnership and your luxurious life. Or—or I hit the gas.
“Either way,” I said, “you won’t be a danger to anyone ever again.”
His breathing had sped up; when he spoke, his voice was low with shaking fear and anger. Helplessness was a terrible feeling—and I might have felt bad, if he weren’t such a terrible person.
“I’ll run,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll leave.”
I ended the call, rose from my chair, and turned to Adriana.
She was pale, but her hands were steady. I thought of how she spoke fondly of her siblings and parents. I thought of shared salads, moments when she smiled at me, and the fear on her face when she realized what had been done to her.
“I’m going to leave now,” I said. “I’m not going to look back. Or ask you about what you do next. The button to unlock the doors is here.” I pointed at the holo-keyboard. “The one for the gas is here.” I gestured again.
Her eyes widened.
“I’ll see you later,” I said, and walked out of the office.
* * *
I met Prefect where I always did. On the pebbled shore of the reservoir.
There was no sign of the hijacked car—but then again, there wouldn’t be. I’d waited twenty-four hours to call Prefect. Either Duvall’s ID tattoos would have deactivated, gone dark without the warmth of his body—or he was cavorting in some country that didn’t extradite. Either way, he wasn’t my problem.
“Here,” I said, and held out the pendant.
Prefect took it from me, pressed his thumb to a near-invisible button. The last scanned name and identity flashed into the air: NAME REDACTED.
Prefect never looked overjoyed; it might detract from his professional air. But I saw a flash of triumph in his eyes. “Where is it?”
“On Duvall’s upper arm,” I said. “I’d have brought it, but I don’t carry a bone saw with me.”
A nod. He’d send out agents to find Duvall—and hopefully, he’d never succeed.
“I assume this concludes our work together?” I asked. Fear quickened in my chest; if he went back on his word …
Prefect’s face softened, just a little. “You were always my best asset,” he said. As if eulogizing me—well, not me. He was eulogizing Augusta Pine.
“I won’t miss this job,” I said. “But if you ever need a jogging buddy … well. You should know I’m picking a new park.”
He touched his tattoo. Black ink swirled around his fingertip. “It was nice working with you, Pine.”
I felt something give way in my chest.
Like I said, there’s only one way to deactivate a tattoo.
When I came to, my warm cheek was against cool pebbles. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been unconscious, how long it had taken the mechanical part of me to restart my heart. I staggered upright, wobbled out of the park, and found an ATM.
I waved my forearm in front of it and waited. Waited to see if the familiar lie would flash across the screen.
Instead, I saw a name I had not read in four years.
* * *
I met Adriana at a café. We sat outside on metal chairs, watched as the self-driving cars slid past in perfect lines.
I didn’t ask her about her choice. It had been hers, after all. We spoke of inconsequential things until the servers were out of earshot.
Adriana’s hand went to the back of her neck. “I feel … weird knowing the tattoo is there. I could get up to all kinds of mischief with it.”
“You could.”
“We could,” she said, as if all sorts of bad ideas were occurring to her. Her use of the plural made me smile.
A server brought us a salad, and we split it—eating curls of fennel and radish in silence. We sat on the same side of the table, and I could feel the warmth of her beside me.
“I still feel like there’s something we missed,” she said.
I shrugged. “I mean, there’s never a perfect crime.”
“Isn’t there?”
And when her fingers wove through mine, I thought she might be right.
Happy Days, Sweetheart
Stephanie Kuehn
inspired by “The Tell-Tale Heart”
I didn’t cry when he won. I was fifteen, and I wasn’t old enough to vote but I’d done what I could—made phone calls, canvassed neighborhoods, attended rallies, written letters, and galvanized what small power I did hold in order to bring promise to the tomorrow I knew would someday be waiting for me with open arms.
I had hope, is what I want to say, and maybe that’s what tragedy really is. A dream ceded to less. Because at that poi
nt in time, there was a true vision for the future, a blueprint, and however imperfect it may have been, it was one of possibility, of a world far greater than the one I’d always known. It was meant to be. Of course it was. After all, she was qualified. Competent. Accomplished.
But then she lost.
To him.
* * *
I didn’t cry when he won. I wanted to, but my defeat was hardly a surprise. How could it be? I was new to Middlefield Academy, a second-year transfer student at this small New England boarding school, one that hovered on the outskirts of Boston and basked in its sweet Yankee glow. For all its claims to inclusive values and a diverse student body—Our students represent more than twenty-two different nations! the school’s glossy brochure boasted—Middlefield was a place that revered tradition. Legacy. The status quo. Not only was I unknown, I was brash, loud, and worse, female. Indeed, I represented the wrong kind of diversity—the product of both black and Mexican heritage, I was still solidly American and required financial aid. My worst sin by far, however, was that I hailed from California. Bakersfield, to be exact.
This is all to say I knew my place even as I strove to defy it, to break that bitch of a ceiling that persisted in remaining so grimly unbroken. Hope, for me, had been replaced by determination, and so during my first month at Middlefield, I threw my hat in the ring for sophomore class president. It was an uninspired race; the only other person running was Jonah Prescott, and Jonah didn’t care at all about the position. I knew this because he’d told me as much. He was only running because his academic adviser had urged him to and Jonah didn’t like to disappoint people. His effort was minimal, while I threw myself into the campaign.
My plan for victory was methodical. First, I spent what little money I’d saved over the summer working cleanup at the local doggy daycare on custom candies I ordered online that were stamped with my initials. Armed with these treats, I went door to door through the dorms and met with every single one of my classmates, listening intently to their concerns, their dreams, their fears. Next, I created social media accounts and invited people to submit anonymous questions to me. These I answered publicly and with an abundance of humility and self-deprecating humor. Finally, I joined clubs, cheered at games, and even went out of my way to seek out the students who felt they didn’t fit into the campus community. This eclectic group included two budding Satanists, our lone JROTC member, and an aspiring magician. It was an uphill battle, but I believed I could persuade my classmates with my ideas. My passion. Sure, they knew Jonah. He was the comfortable choice. But I wanted to be seen as the maverick. The outsider. The one willing to usher in change. Wasn’t that what the world wanted? It seemed that way. It really did.