BONDS OF JUSTICE

“You’ve definitely got the makings of a brat.” But Max stayed, sleeping beside his J for the hours till dawn. The dream came just before he woke, a dream in which River ran laughing behind him as they chased a stray dog they’d made into a pet.

He opened his eyes to find his throat thick with tears, his heart a swelling ache in his chest. And he knew he’d dreamed the joy because of the woman who woke a moment later. “Thank you,” he said.

Sleepy eyes, dark curls falling across one cheek. “For what?”

“For making me remember.” He’d buried his past because it hurt too fucking much. But in doing so, he’d buried River. “I think,” he said, “you would’ve adored River. He could’ve taught you every trick in the book on how to be a true brat.” Then, as they rose, dressed, and ate, he told her about the brother who’d left a mile-wide scar on his heart.


Sophia halted Max when he would’ve gotten out of the car at the Duncan building. “I want to tell you about the reason for the hack.” She couldn’t hide anymore, not after the raw honesty of the memories he’d shared, of the family he’d shared. Her heart was so full it was hard to breathe, hard to speak.

“Whatever it is,” Max said, his hand along the back of her seat, “you know it doesn’t matter. Not between us.”

“I can alter memories.” She made no effort to dress it up.

“I know.”

She jerked up her head. “What?”

“I’m a cop, Sophie.” A wry reminder. “I hadn’t been in the job two years before I realized what Js could do.”

“Then why don’t you hate us?”

“I always figured you had no choice in the matter. And, I did my job. I got the evidence. Not every major case is won or lost on the evidence of a J.”

She should’ve ended it then, but now that she’d begun, she couldn’t stop. She would not steal his affection, his loyalty, through fraud. It would violate the trust between them, taint everything they had. So though the terror of rejection was a chill hand around her throat, she smoothed her flawlessly straight skirt down her legs and said, “Do you remember Dr. Henley?” The famous geneticist had killed his pregnant wife in cold blood, then sliced her up into neat little pieces and dumped those pieces in the sea when he’d gone out for a Sunday fishing trip. There was even speculation that he’d used some pieces as bait.

“Not a case I could ever forget.”

“The Council planned to transfer him to a Psy facility where he could continue his groundbreaking work.” The callous murder of an innocent woman and her unborn child had been considered a mere inconvenience. “All the Js knew.”

“Pity then,” Max said in a hard voice, “that he had a sudden, violent embolism that stopped his heart on his first day in prison, died before the medics could get to him.”

Sophia sucked in a breath. She’d guessed he understood what Js were capable of, had wanted to drive home the point so that there would be absolute honesty between them, but from the way he spoke . . . “Have you always known?”

“Cops call it the J-penalty.” A grim look. “You weren’t in the vicinity. I’ve seen your record. You weren’t anywhere near Henley’s prison when he died.”

“No.” Then, “Not me. Not that time.”

He slid back his door. “Come on.”

She got out to walk beside him, her heart a tight, hopeful knot. “I know you’ve accepted me”—and that remained a deep source of wonder—“but I still thought you’d be more . . .”

“Hard-assed?” A snort. “I’ve seen rich men skate off rape charges, politicians bury abuse claims, young girls commit suicide after being hurt. I don’t agree with vigilante justice, but Js aren’t exactly vigilantes are they? They know the exact nature of a particular crime, and they tend to give out punishments perfectly calibrated to that crime—and only in cases where justice would otherwise be defiled.”

“We aren’t judge and jury.” She’d never talked openly about this. Even among Js, it wasn’t ever actually discussed. But they all knew the parameters, understood what the Corps would overlook as the cost of having Js in the system. “We’re the last resort when the tools of justice fail the victims.”

“What,” Max said, coming to a stop in front of the elevators, his body angled to hide her from the surveillance cameras, “is the impact on a J who acts as that last resort . . . as an executioner if necessary.”

“‘Every action has an opposite and equal reaction,’” she said, quoting the well-known law of physics. “That maxim holds true on the psychic plane.”

White lines bracketed Max’s mouth. “So a J would be damaged by the event?”

“Not exactly damaged. I would say . . . changed.”

A long, still pause. “You can’t do it anymore,” he finally said very, very quietly. “Do you understand me, Sophia?”