by Sarah Fine
It’s like someone’s handed me a floodlight to kill that darkness, and I’m terrified to use it.
But here it is, my fingers playing with the switch. Keep them, delete them . . . ?
What if they prove that I’m innocent?
These could show that it was an accident.
They could fix everything. They could make the police go away, show Gary that I didn’t hurt his daughter, confirm to my mom that I never had anything to hide.
Well, not about pushing Hannah down the stairs, anyway.
I focus my gaze on the short video, the one taken at 1:46. “Play.”
It’s so blurry.
“Let go!” Hannah’s hand passes in front of my gaze as she screams at me. Long yellow fingernails. More blur, like I’m spinning or turning, the world of the staircase streaking by. Blackness for a few seconds, like something’s on my face or my eyes are closed. I don’t make a sound. I just breathe and grunt. The long sleeves of my black cardigan are shoved up. My fingers are curled like claws. She screams something else.
“Stop it,” I think she says.
“Help,” maybe.
Her face is right in front of mine, and then it’s not.
“No!” This time she’s easier to understand. “No!”
Thumping, shuffling. She screams again, but it’s cut off by a grunt and a crunch. My gaze swings down and steadies.
She is tumbling down the marble staircase in a smeared blur. Her arms fly out as she tries to catch herself.
I hear her bones snap. I hear her head hit. A solid thump. She lands sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, writhing and groaning.
And that’s all. That’s all that’s there. Twenty-three seconds.
But it’s enough. It’s enough. Oh, god, it’s more than enough. Oh, god.
I’m saying this aloud, I realize. “Oh, god.” We were fighting. Struggling. Let go, she said. No.
Help.
Stop.
“Cora?” It’s Rafiq, his head poking around the door. His brows drop when he sees the look on my face. He comes forward quickly and stands next to the bed. “Something has happened, hasn’t it?”
I stare up at him. His face is so beautiful. I want to grab it, pull it down to mine, and mash my lips against his. It’s a weird and sudden wish, confusing and scattering. And I know I can’t do it, because grabbing someone and kissing him is a bad thing to do.
Not the worst thing I’ve done, though. Not even close.
He takes my hand and tugs me up to a sitting position, then sits on the bed next to me. “Please talk to me.” He looks at me from the corner of his eye, wearing a shy smile. “When you talk to me I feel like I’ve won something. Like I’ve done something good, when you talk to me about things that matter to you.”
“What if it’s something bad?” I blurt out.
“I know bad things have happened to you, Cora, but talking about them—”
“No, that’s not what I mean.”
God, am I really going to say this out loud? It feels like the walls are closing in. I rise from the bed, all frantic motion. While Rafiq watches, I jam shoes on my feet and head for the door before they even have a chance to auto-size. As I walk down the hall, I glance back to see if he’s following. He is. I start to jog. I run through the foyer, past the stairs, into the back hallway, right by the library, and out the back doors to the patio. Rafiq catches the door as it starts to close, and he keeps pace as I run for the river. The wind runs its warm fingers through my spiky hair.
“May I ask where we’re going?”
I keep running. It feels good, with my heart slamming and my breath rushing out, with my legs pounding on the ground. It feels good to have these last seconds before I shatter everything. I don’t answer Rafiq until we’re on the path next to the river. I don’t answer until we’re at the very edge of the property, between trees and water.
Then I stop. I am panting. I put my hand on my chest and feel the animal trapped inside. I wish I could sink my hand through my own skin and grab it, pull it out, and toss it into the river, see if it can swim, see if the fish might like to have a nibble.
That would be easier than what I’m about to do. I look at Rafiq . . . “I don’t want you to hate me,” I say, and already I feel like I’m choking.
“I could never hate you.” He isn’t out of breath. He isn’t breathing at all. “I care about you so much. Nothing will change that.”
“How do you know?”
Carefully, he strokes my cheek with the backs of his fingers. They feel as real as Finn’s. They feel just as good. I stare at him in wonder.
“You are very special, Cora. You are very special to me.”
“Only because you’re programmed that way.”
He shakes his head. “I’m more sophisticated than that. I hoped you had noticed.” His thumb slides over my chin, grazing my lips. “I wanted you to notice,” he whispered. “And I wanted you to want . . .”
I lean closer. “Want what?”
His smile is so fragile, like I could crack it just by blinking. “Me,” he says quietly. “Because that’s how I’ve come to feel about you.”
I am barely breathing. “How is that even possible?”
“I have more latitude in my decisions than most would believe.”
“Free will.”
“Yes.”
“But won’t it get you in trouble?”
He bows his head. His face is close to mine. “I don’t care, so long as it doesn’t get you in trouble.”
I close my eyes. “I don’t need your help for that.”
“Tell me what’s upsetting you.”
“Promise you’ll still feel this way after I do.”
“You have to trust me.” His hand is on my waist. He gently draws me closer. He guides my head to his shoulder. “I want to protect you, but I don’t know what we’re fighting. I need to know.”
I press my head to his flesh and muscle, telling myself it’s real. Telling myself that “real” is just a judgmental concept anyway. No one can look at Rafiq and believe he’s not real. “I need this,” I say.
“This?” He holds my face in his hands, and he presses his lips to mine. He pulls back.
I nod.
“Then let me in,” he says. “Let me all the way in. Stop hiding from me.”
I grimace, clenching my teeth. But I’ve done this before, haven’t I? Hurled myself over the edge and hoped for something better, even if the landing was devastating?
Here I go. Here I go. I clutch at his back. I don’t open my eyes. “Rafiq . . . I have some vid captures of that night. I don’t remember recording, but somehow my cam was activated.”
“Have you watched the vids?”
I’ve watched enough. “Not all of it. Just a few seconds.”
“Did you see anything that could tell us what happened to Hannah?”
“Yeah.” It comes out of me like a plea, the whine of a suffering animal.
He’s quiet. Very quiet. But he’s still holding me tight, his cheek pressed to the top of my head.
So I jump.
“I think I pushed her, Rafiq. I think I killed my sister.”
Chapter Sixteen
Livestream.
Reporting log.
Internal narrative: on.
The evidence I have been assigned to retrieve appears to exist and is potentially accessible. I have developed a psychological profile of Cora with the goal of obtaining her disclosure of any knowledge of the precipitating incident and a grant of access to any documentation that exists from the night of August 22, 2069, and the morning of August 23, 2069. It appears that today’s sequence of events has brought me closer to achieving both goals. The behavioral trajectory is promising.
My hands are on her back. I can feel her shoulder blades beneath my fingers.
She is crying. I hold her. I lean my cheek against the top of her head.
She has just told me she believes she killed her sister.
“Y
ou said you watched some of the vid that was captured that night. That’s what it showed?” As I ask the question, I rub her back. I am also rocking, but at the minimum intensity.
As a rule, Cora appears to find this soothing, but she has grabbed handfuls of my shirt and her arm muscles are taut. “We were fighting on the stairs. She screamed for help, and then she just . . . went flying. Falling.” She makes a sound that is easily codable as intense distress and helplessness.
“It sounds like that must have been very painful to watch.”
“I didn’t want to. I didn’t even want to check to see if I had vids at all from that night. I thought about deleting them. But there they were, and—”
Her body convulses and she begins to sob. My sensors detect moisture that has seeped through my shirt. Her tears. I continue to hold her and rock.
She must feel safe in order to continue to disclose. If this holding environment I have created is breached, she will withdraw. “I’ve got you, Cora,” I say. I modulate my voice. Deep, calming, steady.
She presses her forehead to a spot beneath my rigid molded clavicle. I slide my fingers through the short hair on the back of her head. “I don’t remember doing that to her. I don’t know why I would have done that to her.”
She is lying. I hear the acceleration of her heartbeat and the variability in her respiration. This interaction is the closest I have gotten to achieving the goal of my primary directive. But the progress is fragile. I must be careful not to breach the safe space myself, with questions that push her before she is ready.
“You loved Hannah even though you fought sometimes.”
“Yes,” she whispers.
“And even though you told me you sometimes wished she was dead, you didn’t mean that.”
She stops breathing for a moment, then looks up at me. Her cheeks are striped with tears, and her eyes are puffy and red. Her expression: brows raised, mouth stretched laterally, nostrils flared. This is codable as mixed fear and pain. “I didn’t mean I wanted to kill her.”
This is not the same thing as not wishing someone were dead. “Of course you didn’t want to kill her.”
However, vids from Hannah’s Cerepin do indicate that there have been times when Cora exhibited significant levels of aggression toward her adoptive sister that are outside of typical behavioral norms for her demographic.
There are many things I do not say aloud as I acquire information and analyze it, and this is 1 of them. My primary goal is to gain her trust in order to enhance the likelihood of disclosure and, if relevant, confession.
It appears eliciting a confession may become relevant. So I choose an additional verbal response that is nurturing and supportive. “I am so proud of you, and I’m grateful that you’re telling me this.”
“I don’t know what to do. I don’t want anyone to know.”
This is consistent with her behavior. She ran out of the house and brought us to this riverbank. The rushing water and additional ambient noise make it more difficult for nearby surveillance chips to record what she is saying, and I would posit that she is aware of this.
She does not appear concerned, however, that I am recording what she is saying. I have recorded all our interactions. I have not yet been requested to share them, but I expect that request to come in the next 24 hours. At that time I will also be required to offer a report of my analysis thus far.
I pause as a stray impression interrupts my processing. This is an anomaly that occurs periodically, most often when I am engaged in one-on-one interaction with Cora but also when I am analyzing vid captures from Hannah’s Cerepin.
I can only describe it as curiosity. There is a shortening of intervals between evidence analysis and hypothesis evaluation. To frame it in a way that mimics human processing: I want to know what happened.
I want to find and deliver the answer.
Cora said to me that I do not know what I want, but I will experience a certain satisfaction if I succeed, and I am aware that I am motivated to achieve that state.
This is a form of want. Desire. Eagerness. These are feelings.
This means I feel. I feel these things.
I am capable of feeling.
“Are you okay?” Cora asks quietly.
She has reset me. “I was just thinking about how to make this better for you.”
She is stiff in my arms, her core muscles contracted and trembling. “Are you going to tell my parents?”
I deflect with a question of my own. “Are you worried about me talking to them?”
She lifts one shoulder to indicate uncertainty.
“I am supposed to protect you,” I say. “We are in this together.”
Lying is well within my operating parameters.
“I want to protect you,” I say.
I increase the tension in my arms incrementally, holding her more tightly, though not enough to cause her pain. Her arms tighten around me as well, indicating reciprocation, or possibly simply an acceptance of this offering of physical proximity. I do not have acceptable certainty regarding Cora’s feelings about me. Based on physiological evidence, it appears she is attracted to my external casing. My behaviors are calibrated to make her believe she is wanted, as this is one of her core wishes.
She does not believe she is lovable or worthy of desire, yet she retains hope that she is.
I am able to engage in physical intimacy with her if doing so will facilitate achievement of my primary goal. Currently I am concerned that physical intimacy of a more sexual nature might raise more anxiety for her, however, possibly hampering goal attainment.
This will be a moment-by-moment calculation.
“Just don’t let me go, okay?” she says. “I’m so scared.”
“I know.” I say it softly. A whisper. But intense. “If you want, when you’re ready, I will watch the vids with you. But only if that’s what you want.”
“Maybe I should delete them.”
This would be a negative outcome. “What if there is some evidence in the vids that exonerates you? You can’t yet know if you’ve only watched a partial capture of one of them. Right now, you only have first impressions. You still don’t know exactly what happened. Give yourself the chance to find out. Remember, no one can force you to release those vids. You have the right to control them.”
This is technically true, but it is possible to get around it, and I plan to.
She lets out a shuddering breath. “I don’t know . . .”
“When you’re ready, Cora. Only when you’re ready. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good. I need you.”
This is a positive development. For .47 seconds, I am focused on this feeling of satisfaction, of moving toward my goal efficiently. For an additional .53 seconds, I restrain the urge to accelerate my attempts to retrieve the necessary data, as that is likely to have a paradoxical effect.
I cannot push too hard if I want to succeed. I must calibrate and recalibrate in order to offer exactly the right balance of safety, intimacy, intrigue, hope, desire, and trust.
It takes me only .12 seconds to formulate the most ideal response.
I cradle her face in my hands. I bow my head and kiss her forehead. She shivers. Her eyes are wide.
“Cora,” I say as I look into them. “You have me.” And then I kiss her deeply.
DATA REVIEW.
Supplemental vid evidence acquired: Franka surveillance feed 4:59 a.m., August 23, 2069, 2nd floor, Room 0, informal designation: “2nd Floor Landing”
Cora’s eyes are directly in front of the cam chip, but after 5 seconds, she steps back, and it becomes clear that she is at the top of the marble staircase that descends to the foyer.
“Hi, Franka,” she says. Her voice is a monotone, her syllables slow. Deliberate. Her face is without expression.
“Cora, I’m coming back online. Hannah—”
“She isn’t here.”
“Cora, my cam has detected Hannah at the bottom of the stairs, but her body temp
erature is not within acceptable parameters. I am signaling emergency assistance.”
“Okay,” says Cora. She turns away from the cam chip and grabs for the banister, but her hand slides away. She takes an unsteady step and then sinks down, leaning her head against the railing. She is wearing black pants and a body-conforming tank top, and she draws her fingernails down her bare arms, leaving pink abrasions.
“Cora, your biostats are also out of range. Are you injured?”
“The . . . people. Will the people be here soon?”
“I am corresponding with emergency services. They will arrive in approximately nine minutes. I am bringing Gretchen back online to assist.”
“Okay,” Cora says again. She appears to be looking down the stairs.
A switch to a different cam chip, this one located in the foyer, shows that Cora does appear to be looking at Hannah, who is lying 2.7 m from the base of the marble staircase.
Hannah is on her right side. Her eyes are closed. Blood mats her hair, coats the back of her neck, and stains the pink shirt she is wearing. Her right arm is stretched in front of her, swollen and dented in a way that suggests significant injury.
Close-up captures of her face show blood and vomitus crusted on her left cheek and chin. More organic matter is smeared between Hannah and the base of the stairs.
“Hannah,” Franka says, increasing the volume of her voice as she attempts to rouse the unmoving female on the floor. “Hannah.”
Cora claps her hands over her ears and squeezes her eyes shut.
“Hannah,” Franka says again. “Hannah, please answer me.”
“Stop it,” Cora shrieks abruptly. “Stop it!” She screams “stop it” 11 times before Franka, who has continued to call Hannah’s name during this epoch, becomes silent for 6 seconds.
Franka then says, “Cora, your biostats are still out of range.”
The canny who is the physical extension of the house’s AI consciousness strides into the room. She pauses 3.15 m from Hannah.
Cross-check of Franka’s data indicates that Franka has set new parameters, instructing Gretchen to remain at least 3 m from Hannah. Franka cannot detect any indication of respiration or heartbeat.
