by Dahlia Adler
“How are you liking the new job?” he asked after we rounded the lake.
“It’s been one day.” My breath was fraying, every inhale jagged. “I learned where the cafeteria is. I met Duvall’s other receptionist.”
“And have you guessed the target?”
I considered. “Duvall.”
“And how do you know that?”
“He wears the clothing of dead men the same way poachers drape themselves in furs. Also, he’s got that ‘I’m so rich, look at me’ vibe.” I took my eyes off the path to glance at Prefect. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
A few paces, and then Prefect said, “You’re right.”
“Please tell me he’s a spy.” It came out a little breathless as we rounded a bend in the gravel path. “I’ve always wanted to take down a spy.”
Prefect allowed himself a small sigh. “He’s a thief.”
“Boring.”
Prefect slowed, and I slowed with him, a little grateful for the reprieve.
“So what did he steal?” I asked. “Jewels? Famous baseball cards or something?”
Prefect drew in a breath and exhaled; steam fogged around us both. “We believe he is currently in possession of a duplicated government electron-ink tattoo.”
I stumbled to a halt; rocks slid around my feet, and I heard several of them as they plop-plopped into the reservoir. “That’s—that’s not possible.”
The whole point of electron-ink tattoos was that they could not be duplicated. The ink was top secret, accessible only to government officials. Every shipment was tagged, and the ink required a password to activate. Without that password, the nanotech became inert. And caused chemical burns.
No criminal could manage it. Which meant—
“Oh,” I said, realizing the truth of the matter. “We did it. The Feds.”
“It wasn’t sanctioned.” A sour look passed over Prefect’s face. “I assume you’ve heard of NAME REDACTED?”
“I do know who our elected officials are, yes.”
“Hypothetically,” said Prefect, “if such a man were to have a mistress, he might want to give her access to his office. Every federal office is wired so that comers and goers are recorded in the public record. If he’d allowed his mistress to visit, his indiscretions would have been obvious. So he found a way around it.”
I snorted. “So he bribed federal agents to duplicate his own tattoo? To give to his mistress? That’s either brilliant or incredibly stupid.”
“Considering the tattoo was stolen before it could be applied,” said Prefect grimly, “I’m going with the latter.”
“Duvall stole it?”
“We think so. He contracts out to several branches of government, and on the day the tattoo went missing, he had been in NAME REDACTED’s office. But Duvall has been searched—thoroughly. As has his house. And his office.” Prefect’s mouth twisted at the edges. “We’ve been at this for months. Sent in special agents, even a few contractors. But we don’t have enough evidence. Judges will no longer sign off on our warrants.”
“And you can’t involve the cops,” I said. “Because then it might leak that our government is actually a corrupt crapshow.”
And this was why I’d been brought in.
“I’ll find it,” I said. My voice was tart. “And presumably save our government from another scandal. I assume there’ll be parades in my honor? A few medals? How about an actual paycheck instead of this ridiculous stipend? Or—”
“Your old life back.”
That stopped me cold.
“What?”
His gaze and voice were steady when he replied, “Get this done, and we’ll reactivate your old identity.”
“I could go home,” I said. The desire curled low in my belly, deeper than a physical hunger. For me, home was the scent of damp wood, the creak of floorboards beneath bare feet, the background thrum of the nearby traffic, the boxes of takeout because our parents were too busy to cook, and the comfortable old couch that sank a little in the middle. Home was chaotic and bustling and full of the people who truly knew me. Not the name written beneath my skin—but me.
But—
“And if I can’t find the tattoo?” I asked. “Let me guess—something terrible happens to me. An extra five years, or solitary confinement?”
Prefect glanced at his forearm; he was somewhere else, even as he stood beside me. “Where do you get these ideas?” he said, exasperated. “We won’t add to your sentence—but we won’t lessen it, either.”
Ten years. Ten long years. I’d lived four of them, but six yet remained. It made me want to keep running until my lungs caught fire.
Prefect reached inside his breast pocket and withdrew a necklace. “Scanner,” he said. “Smash-proof, waterproof, and looks cheap enough that it probably won’t be stolen. When you find the tattoo, verify it with this.”
I slid the chain over my neck.
Prefect glanced out at the water, then shook his head. “I don’t know why you jog here.”
I could have answered a number of ways. That people picked at scabs because they didn’t know how to let them heal. That remembering was the only way to honor the dead.
I answered, “Aren’t criminals supposed to return to the scene?”
* * *
Going to work at Atreus Partnership wasn’t difficult; I was just an intern, after all. There were papers to be filed, guests to be greeted, and meetings to schedule. I double-checked dates, input emails and phone numbers for new business partners, and kept everything organized. Duvall barely acknowledged me. It was Adriana who went with him to business meetings, carrying his coffee and his briefcase.
Briefcases are wondrous things for smuggling. The lining can be pulled away; they are made for false backs—and even the handles could be hollowed out. If I knew thieves—and I did—then I knew Duvall would keep the tattoo close.
On the third day of my employment, Adriana dragged her chair to my desk. “All right,” she said. “I can’t eat at my desk. Budge over.”
I peered over my computer screen; sure enough, Adriana’s desk was so covered in papers that it looked as if a book had exploded.
“So we’re eating at my desk?” I said.
“Seniority rules,” she said, but she was smiling. “And I’ll share.”
My lunch consisted of a protein bar. I often made do with drone-delivered takeout. Adriana produced a bowl brimming with lettuce, sprouts, pickled beets, and golden potatoes. All of it looked wondrously fresh.
Adriana divided a portion of her salad onto the bowl’s lid, then slid it to me. I had no utensils, so I popped a sprout into my mouth with my fingers.
“You cook, then?” I asked.
Adriana nodded. Her fork swept gracefully into the bowl. “My mother and father both love it. They made sure I knew how to feed myself before I left home.”
“How long have you been away from them?”
It wasn’t truly information I needed to know, but most interrogations began that way. Start with the small things, make the subject relaxed, then prod deeper.
“About eight months,” said Adriana, after another bite. The lines of her bright lipstick remained intact. “My family needed the money, so I left school.”
Unlike other companies, Atreus Partnership paid their interns—and offered housing in a nearby college dorm. I hadn’t taken them up on that offer, but then again, I had other income. “So you’re hoping he’ll hire you on, once you’re eighteen?” I asked.
She nodded.
“So Duvall’s a good boss?” I spoke conversationally, as if I were just another young woman probing at her own career options.
Adriana paused. “He’s not bad. He’s not all warm and fuzzy, but he’s a decent person.” She shrugged. “A few months back, I was at a party with him. You know the kind—all imported suits and wine that tastes terrible but costs a fortune.”
I didn’t know, but I nodded. She continued, “I had one drink, just to taste. We’re not supposed
to drink on the job, but I was curious.” She grimaced. “Bartender slipped something into my glass and I was sick as anything. But rather than lecture me, Mr. Duvall just let me sleep it off in the limo. Afterwards, there was a bit of a balling out, but during—he was decent.”
“Do you think he might take me to one of these events?” I asked. I tried to make it sound like I was merely interested.
“Maybe,” said Adriana. “You’ll have to learn everyone’s names first. And how to eat with a fork and knife.” She glanced down at my fingers, slippery with oil as I picked up a sliver of cucumber.
I felt a flush creep along my cheeks. “I’ll bring a second set, next time,” Adriana said, rising from her chair.
* * *
My first target was Duvall’s briefcase.
It was black leather, with a worn antique handle and small nicks along one side. When Duvall came to work, it was tucked beneath one arm; when he stopped in the hallways to speak with acquaintances, he left it on Adriana’s desk; every night, it went home with him, and I entertained myself with the thought of Duvall spooning the briefcase when he slept.
I couldn’t simply take the briefcase.
But I didn’t have to.
One afternoon, Duvall strode out of his office, tapping the phone interface at his ear. He set his briefcase down on Adriana’s desk and pushed through the glass doors without a glance back.
“If the building’s on fire, they have to tell us, right?” I asked dryly.
Adriana barely looked up from her work. “Yes.”
I waited a few minutes, then rose from my own desk. There was a coffee machine down the hall—and while its espresso was laughably bitter, it would serve for my purposes.
I felt a little bad about this part of the plan.
But not so bad I wouldn’t do it.
“I brought us coffee,” I said, striding back into the office. I’d had to balance them, one on top of the other, to wave my hand for the door sensor. They teetered precariously, and I made a grab for the top one.
It was a little too slow. The cup hit the marble floor and coffee splattered across the hem of Adriana’s white dress.
She made a small gasping sound, like a landed fish. There was a scramble for tissues, and my copious apologies. “I’m so sorry,” I said.
Her face was tight with distress. “I need to—just a moment—” And she all but ran from the office, veering in the direction of the restroom.
I looked down at the forgotten briefcase.
I had to get this done quick.
The insides were lined with silk, and several folders were nestled together. The papers were flicked through and then set aside. I pressed my fingers to the briefcase’s lining, feeling for any lump that should not be there. When I found nothing, I checked the handles. There were no grooves, no way to pry them open.
Next, I tapped the casing, listening for hollow spaces. The sound of my heartbeat was too loud, and I pressed my ear to the briefcase, trying to drown out the lub-click, lub-click of my pulse.
Nothing.
I closed the briefcase and returned to my own desk. The coffee tasted bitterer than I remembered.
* * *
Adriana forgave me.
I knew this because when one of the thin jargony young men decided to welcome the new intern by attaching a sticky note between my shoulder blades, Adriana reached up and tugged it free.
I blinked at the small scrap of paper. “Who put that there?”
“Looks like Fred’s handwriting,” she replied. “He’s a bit of an arse.”
I read the note.
“Fresh meat?” I said flatly.
“Well, it might have said kick me,” Adriana replied.
“Considering it was on my upper back, they’d need some reach.”
“Well, the easiest place to hide something is where you wouldn’t think to look, right?”
It was true.
It didn’t stop me from leaving a contract for a competing company in Fred’s inbox. It’d be found in the next security sweep—and likely get him fired.
When I wasn’t indulging in a little revenge, I thought of places that Duvall could be hiding that tattoo. The list wasn’t short. Hollowed-out table legs. Beneath the carpets. Inside the lining of a coat. But all of those places had been searched, and as the days went by, I found myself thinking less of the assignment and more of the young woman sitting across from me.
We ate lunch at my desk. “I’ll let you have some, though,” she repeated, when she saw my meal of protein bars. She seemed more animated when she ate; her posture loosened and her fingers gesticulated wildly.
With each meal, I discovered a little more about her.
Over slices of rye bread topped with goat cheese and chives, I learned that she was six months out from her eighteenth birthday. When she brought poached pears and cold cream, she told me she had a little sister attending a school for the gifted. When we shared a bowl of warm curry broth, she let slip that she’d never dated anyone.
And when she brought pickled herring, I recoiled with such fervor that I nearly toppled over in my chair.
“Oh, come on,” she said, and she laughed. “It’s just fish.”
“It smells rancid.”
“It does not. It smells—”
“Fishy.”
“Well, what do you expect? For it to smell like chicken?”
She settled beside me. I was still cringing away from the little pink lumps floating in a jar. It looked like something a mad scientist would keep on a shelf.
She placed a circle of potato on her plate, then dressed it with the herring, sour cream, and a sprinkle of fresh dill. “Do you trust me?”
The question pierced me through.
My pallor must have made Adriana nervous, for she said, “It’s okay, you don’t really have to try it.”
I rolled up my sleeves, made a show of bracing myself. “All right. I can do this.”
She laughed, picked up the herring, and held it up. Her mouth was crooked up in a half smile, half question.
I leaned forward and she placed the small bite between my lips.
It burst on my tongue like fresh seawater—brine and salt, with the tang of dill. I nodded my appreciation, and a grin broke across her face. It made an unfamiliar warmth unfurl in my stomach. It made me want to pick up another slice, just so she’d smile like that again.
“See,” she said. “Not so bad…”
Her voice trailed off, and I realized she was looking at my left arm. At the webwork of scars along my left elbow. It had been one of my shattered joints, and it was utterly synthetic now.
I yanked at my sleeve.
Adriana looked away at once, as embarrassed as if she’d caught a glimpse of me naked. “Sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t mean to stare.”
“It was a hijacking.” The words came out of me before I could stop them.
Adriana blinked, but she didn’t look too startled. It wasn’t unheard of—not since self-driving cars became the norm. The autopilot could be hacked and redirected. Government officials had cars connected to a secret network to prevent hostage-taking. But normal people couldn’t afford that.
“You were in an accident?” Adriana asked. Her voice was soft.
I nodded. “Someone reprogrammed the car I was in. Turned off the autopilot. With that gone, other cars couldn’t sense our vehicle. We were slammed into by an SUV, pushed off a bridge. Fell into the reservoir.”
Her lips formed silent platitudes. Finally, she said, “Well, that sucks.”
In my dreams, I could still feel the jerk of impact, the sudden weightlessness, and then the cool water filling my nose and mouth.
When I’d awoken in the hospital, it had been to a body that was half rebuilt. To synthetic bones, regrown skin, and a half-mechanical heart that didn’t like beating too quickly. A tube was lodged between my lips, and I couldn’t speak. But the man sitting at my bedside must have heard me, for he looked up from his holographic newsp
aper. Global clocks spread across his arm, and he appeared to be checking one of them.
You aren’t going to know my name, he’d said. But you may call me Prefect.
Adriana spoke. “What happened to the person who hijacked the car?”
I ate another slice of potato.
“Community service,” I replied.
* * *
I broke into Duvall’s apartment.
He wasn’t in it, of course. I’d memorized his planner. As for getting inside, Prefect had the security codes from his legal searches.
I couldn’t believe Duvall hadn’t changed them. It was almost an invitation for the Feds to keep searching.
An invitation—or perhaps a taunt.
He lived in a high-rise, the kind with imported furniture and a few pieces of modern art. It held none of the comfortable clutter that made a place feel lived in. I stood in the center of the apartment and realized there was almost no place to search. The cupboards were made of glass; there were no carpets, no paintings to conceal a vault, and even the broom closet was rigidly organized.
There was no tattoo.
I stood in that sterile apartment, my gaze swimming with exhaustion and the summer heat, and all I wanted was to pick up the phone. To dial the old numbers, to hear my dad say, “Hello?”
He probably wouldn’t recognize my voice. It had been years.
My heartbeat faltered, and I felt that hiccup of sensation. In the beginning, I’d considered asking Prefect to see a doctor, to ask if there was perhaps something wrong. But I already knew the answer.
Why was my heart out of rhythm?
Because it should not be beating.
* * *
I’d always been good at fooling computers; when I was a kid, I’d used my skills to download terabytes of pirated movies. But one day, I’d been trying to impress a boy. His brows were always arched and he wore a shirt of swampy green. On anyone else, it would have been ugly. But he had the Midas touch of beauty, a way of making everything around him seem appealing. Even I felt beautiful.
He’d had a car. A lovely little red thing that his parents had programmed to take him to school and back—no detours allowed. He had wanted to ditch school—and I’d wanted him.
