The police look between us. They are all wearing bulletproof Kalar vests over their sleek, dark blue uniforms. Cops almost never wear Kalars, not in this city that prides itself on its lack of crime. The whites of their eyes shimmer in the light with their extra implants.
An Indian-American woman with curly hair tamed in a knot at the nape of her neck clutches her gun, shifting her stance. The other man, white and brown-haired with a face so generically good-looking I’ll forget what he looks like as soon as he leaves the room, begins to make a perimeter of my apartment. Perhaps he thinks extra backup is hiding behind the couch. The last man, their leader, is black with a gold tattoo I can’t make out peeking over the collar of his uniform. He narrows his eyes at us, focusing on Tila and her teal hair: “Tila Collins?”
She doesn’t answer, keeping her head bowed.
He steps forward and grabs her upper arms. For a second, I fear she’s going to resist and try to run for it, but then she goes limp.
“What’s going on here?” I ask. “She says she hasn’t done it, whatever you’re after her for.”
They ignore me. Gold Tattoo says, “Tila Collins, you are under arrest for murder in the first degree. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you.”
When was the last time he had to read anyone their Miranda rights?
Gold Tattoo pulls Tila from my grasp. My hands fall useless at my sides. Tila tilts her head up at him and spits in his face.
Gold Tattoo wipes the spittle away, expressionless.
The wind leaves my lungs as the full implications sink in. Murder. There hasn’t been a murder by a civilian in San Francisco in years. Not since Pacifica was formed after the United States fractured forty years ago. Not since VeriChips and implants and cameras on every corner.
“Tila?” I ask as Gold Tattoo marches her back to the hovercar, handing her over to Curly Hair. I sound forlorn, lost.
She throws a pleading glance over her shoulder as they push her inside. “Taema!”
Within moments, they are all gone save Gold Tattoo. He towers over me, but he looks so young. He might not be, with flesh parlors everywhere, but it’s hard to find him terrifying when it looks like he only learned how to shave yesterday.
A sob lodges in my throat. It’s all I can do not to break into pieces in front of this man. One moment, I was annoyed that dinner was growing cold, and now my apartment is a mess and my sister is accused of murder. I can’t wrap my head around the word. Murder. It’s Tila. My sister. I know her better than I know myself.
Don’t I?
“Miss Collins?” There might be a hint of concern behind the brusque tone. He’s close enough that I can make out his tattoo: a California grizzly bear.
I find my voice. “My sister’s just been taken for murder. How do you think I feel?”
He has no answer to that. Within moments, the sirens blare again as they take my sister away from me.
“Who’s she meant to have murdered?” I ask, my voice tight. That word again. It’s ugly.
“A body of a man was found at Zenith under suspicious circumstances. I can’t say anything more.”
My hands ball into fists. Gold Tattoo notices the movement, his hand resting on his gun. My lungs burn from holding in the sobs.
He pauses. I realize why he’s stayed behind.
“I’m to go in for questioning too? Why didn’t you take me with Tila?”
He shifts slightly. “Yes, Miss Collins. We’re to take you in as a precaution. You’ll be going to the station. Your sister is being taken elsewhere.”
“Where?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
I fold over, trying to take in deep breaths but still hyperventilating.
“Miss Collins.”
I hold up a hand. I think of the Hearth, how Mana-ma taught us to control our emotions. Let the darkness float away. Let in only the light. I imagine the chapel on the hill at the center of the town, the five-pointed symbol carved on its side, the bird-calls that floated through the open windows on a spring day. Despite my hatred of her, her techniques work.
I stand up, smoothing my features, shaking my head a little from side to side. “Yes. We have the same DNA. You’ll want to make sure I didn’t do it.”
He says nothing.
“Am I under arrest?”
“No. You’re being detained for questioning. Please grab your things, Miss Collins.”
I look around at my apartment. The wet footprints all over the carpet. The shining bits of glass. The food cold on the table, the plates laid out for a meal we will never eat.
I grab my coat and purse.
As he leads me down the stairs, curiosity seems to get the better of him. “I shouldn’t ask, but do you really think she didn’t do it?”
I pause. I still think he’s been waxworked—he’s too highly ranked to be any younger than late thirties—but his eyes aren’t quite as jaded as a lot of older people masquerading in younger bodies.
My hand snakes toward my sternum again, pressing against the faint seam where they unzipped me and Tila and took us apart a decade ago. Underneath, my mechanical heart beats, beats, beats.
“I know my twin better than anyone else. If she says she didn’t do it, then she didn’t.”
I’m sure I believe it.
Ninety-nine percent sure.