No shit.
“Okay, okay.” I haul myself onto mostly steady legs and walk to the door. I barely get it open before a hand forces it wide. They barrel in, five men in dark blue suits with the dark purple and green cuffs of Recorders. Four large hoverdiscs bob along behind them—digiloaders certified to carry a streethover’s worth of weight—each stacked with folded boxes.
The men are all of a height and spread out on a mission, each marching into a different room.
My hands tighten at my sides. “What’s going on?”
The only man without a digiloader at his heels steps forward. He looks just like the others. A little blonder maybe, broader-shouldered, but the same flat expression. Same dead eyes.
He’d happily rend me to ash and dance on my grave.
The man thrusts a thin digisheet contract under my nose, transparent except for the text. “Under Record 782-H of the Rights of Inheritance, upon death all possessions of the deceased will transfer to his or her eldest child.”
“No, the suite’s mine.” I grab the sheet before it smashes my nose. “Yonni made a will; it’s recorded.”
And so far, no one’s mentioned Dad.
“Yes,” says a different voice. Dee’s voice. “But the will only specifies the suite itself. It didn’t mention the things in the suite.”
She leans against my doorframe and looks . . . pretty. Hair smoothed into a professional bun, white blouse airy and feminine. Stark skirt and heels. No jangling bracelets, no blaring jacket or studs. She could be a lordling.
She could be Yonni.
All around, the Recorders flutter. Open boxes and fill them. A suited storm of feet and hands.
But here, it’s quiet. Calm.
“You’re stealing my stuff.” I sound almost disinterested.
“No, my stuff.” She flicks the digisheet from my hand and highlights a passage with a smooth swipe. “You’re lucky I don’t press charges, keeping me from my inheritance for so long.”
The text agrees. Perfect legal sentences, tidy and above board. How did I not know this? How did Dee not know this? She fought like hell when the will was read, but all of that discussion hinged on the suite. We never talked much about things, especially since I gave Dee most everything she wanted.
She never cared about Yonni’s stuff, except for resale value. There’s nothing left worth selling.
But then, this isn’t about Yonni.
I search Dee’s face for something to hate, wait for the anger to hit. It doesn’t.
Two of the men brush by, carrying Yonni’s bed. Even cracked, it’s nicer than anything else in Dee’s suite.
The lead Recorder waits, itching for a scene. Begging for it. He’d love to take down Millie Oen’s daughter on a technicality. Who wouldn’t? Dee sees it, too, and her eyes hold the dare. Go ahead, cause a scene. Be that stupid.
But I’m not into hopeless battles. Most survivors aren’t, as a rule.
I hand the digisheet back. “That must have taken some digging.”
She leans close with wide burgundy lips. “You touch my son again, and you’ll lose more than this.”
“He’s the one who dosed me, remember?”
“And he’s facing Feverfed,” she whispers in my ear. “What have you ever faced?”
“Today?” I bite. “You.”
She grins, the mirror image of Yonni. “And don’t you forget it.”
The Recorders take everything. Furniture, dishes, curtains. My clothes, my shoes. If it’s not nailed down or on my person, if I can’t prove I bought it with my own money, it’s gone.
Dee knows how to make a point.
Yonni’s favorite heels with the blue spikes. The box of patterned fabric for the quilt she promised to make someday. Her kitschy cat figurines with the purple skin and big eyes. Even my Gilken quotepad from the fridge—all boxed up and hauled out.
I follow the Recorders with their digiloaders down to the tower lobby. Stand, arms folded, atop the outer steps as they load boxes in a hauler-bus too big for the occasion.
Dee preens. Blows me a kiss as the hauler’s rear door slams. Smiles at the Recorder who opens the smaller door of a high-end streethover. The rest of the group splits between the hauler and hover, loads up and ships out. The engines purr down the street. Turn a corner four blocks down, and disappear.
Everything Yonni was, everything she loved, everything that mattered—is gone. All gone.
I didn’t fight. I didn’t kick or scream or stop them. I let Dee walk into Yonni’s place, which I promised to never do, and walk out with the whole of Yonni’s life—which Yonni also would have extracted a promise for, if she’d had any idea that’d be on the table.
The street’s empty, the engines’ whirring long since gone. The sun’s high, harsh and blinding.
I don’t move, have nowhere to go. The suite’s empty. I’m empty.
Behind me, the lobby door opens and closes. A withered hand finds my arm.
“It wasn’t me,” Mrs. Divs says. “I didn’t tell anyone about your dad.”
“I know.” It cracks, stuck to my tongue.