Yonni could do that, too, listen without judgment.
“Yonni needed meds,” I say, again. “Expensive meds. Mom was an Archivest at the Archive. She also used to be hooked up with the Accountants—you know, the survivors from the indie planets? The ones we gutted? It was a super secret when I was little, so I figured if her boss at the Archive knew, she’d be fired.”
“Did you tell her boss, then?” Mrs. Divs asks.
I shake my head. “Threatened to, if Yonni didn’t get her meds.”
“And your mother delivered?”
“Yeah.” I fold my arms across my chest, fists tight against my shirt. “The only one, out of everyone, who did.”
Mom took care of everything. Yonni’s medication, her glass treatment bed, found the small off-grid clinic that would take care of her and allow me to stay overnight. Not that it helped. Nothing helped.
Then after, when Yonni’s body was taken and it was just me alone in the room, Mom had stopped by and asked, Does this cover my end of our bargain, or have you other demands to make?
If I’d had a soul, it’d have screamed, but there was nothing left for me to scream with.
No, we’re even, I said and walked past her out the door. I never thought I’d see her again. Then one day, months later, I opened the door and there she was.
You want to get coffee? she’d said, and after a minute, like an idiot, I’d said, Okay.
Infinite seconds drag.
Then Mrs. Divs straightens and crosses her ankles, cup in lap.
“‘I wish I could tell you how this ends,’” she says, my mother echoing through every ancient syllable. I raise my head. “‘I have my theories, but this history isn’t mine to make. I’ve heard that good things come in threes, but I believe in fours.’” Mrs. Divs pauses a beat, her voice more her own. “And then she did something very odd. She cupped her hands together and blew into them, saying, ‘The question is a matter of heart.’”
Heart. Not brightheart.
It wasn’t a secret message.
Except, she’d cupped my hands just like that, that last night, as she used to when I was little.
Mrs. Divs sets aside her tea. “Now tell me, Kit, what do you think that meant?”
Last time, unlike when I was young, my hands weren’t empty.
You’ve the whole world, remember? What will you do with it?
The bracelet.
I stare at the empty wall-screen, my wide-eyed face reflected back.
I wish I could tell you how this ends.
You’ve the whole world.
This history isn’t mine to make.
“What did you give me?” I ask under my breath.
“You know what she meant, don’t you?” asks Mrs. Divs.
“No,” I say, fast, too fast.
Mrs. Divs, on the other hand, is measured and slow. “Ah, Kit. You never were much of a liar.”
I jump to my feet. “Thanks for the tea.”
Her cane flashes out and traps me between the couch and the coffee table. She tsks, head shaking. “I’m a little worried, dear. More than a little, truth to tell. Here’s your mother talkin’ about threes and fours, when once would be enough for anyone. How long you think she’ll keep this up?”
I clench my fists and don’t jump the table, or clatter over her delicate painted dishes. “Please, Mrs. Divs, I have no answers.”
“Then maybe you best find some.” She removes her cane. I cross the room in a heartbeat. As I open the door, she calls, “I hear the Records Officials will be doing a routine check of properties soon. Should be interesting.”
Not unless she tells them about Dad. She’d only have to mention him in passing and I’d be on the street. No money, no food, no bed, no Yonni.
Except for the world in my empty hands, and the sins of my mother.
“You do what you think is right, Mrs. Divs,” I say and close the door.
I take the stairs two at a time, hands shaking and dizzy down to my bones. I need to eat. I need that bracelet.
If I can trace my transaction card and give it to Decker, I’ll be five hundred short—assuming he doesn’t jack the price. I’ll have to do a job for him.
Which is exactly how Greg started dealing.
I’m not Greg.
I slam out of the stairwell, feet pounding the rhythm of Mom’s voice.
Good things come in threes, but I believe in fours.
Three what? Explosions? So far, we’ve had only one, and only two broadcasts.
The question is a matter of heart.
Not that she had one.
I smack my keypass to the security panel and swing through the door. It slams behind me. The room’s darker than it should be, the curtains pulled close.
The curtains were open when I left.
There are people on the couch.
I spin on my heel—don’t think, don’t scream—and reach for the door.
Arms wrap me from behind, a hand on my mouth, a clamp on my waist. Small breasts bunch at my back. A woman.
“Now,” she whispers in my ear. “Don’t you go screaming.”