False Hearts (False Hearts #1)(3)

“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.





TWO

TAEMA

Officer Oloyu, or Gold Tattoo, is all business when we reach the San Francisco Police Headquarters. He has become hard—perhaps on the silent hovercar trip he’s changed his mind and decided I must be as guilty as my sister. Or the question in the hallway was an act, and he decided he wouldn’t catch the fly with honey. He gazes down at the blank tablet, little more than a white piece of plastic to focus the eyes as he accesses his ocular implant for my file.

He hovers close, almost touching, knowing that it will make me defensive and on edge. Then he strolls to his side of the table, perching on the chair, legs spread wide.

He’s offered me a coffee, but it sits in front of me, an oily sheen on top from the artificial creamer, untouched and growing cold. My mouth is dry. All I can think of is Tila. Where have they taken her? What’s going through her mind?

Oloyu is the only one in the room. Aren’t there usually two, a good cop and a bad one? Granted, all I have to go on is old cop shows they play late at night on the wallscreen.

Oloyu stares at me, unblinking. I can’t decide whether or not to be intimidated by him. His splayed body language is aggressive, and it’s working—I feel like prey being stalked. Yet his features are still so young, honest and symmetrical. If he really wants to be more frightening in situations like these, perhaps he should make another visit to the flesh parlor.

“When’s the last time you saw your sister?” Oloyu asks.

“Almost a week ago,” I answer, keeping my voice flat to stop it quavering. I’m also embarrassed to realize it’s been that long. I’d invited her over for dinner twice, but she’d claimed she was working both times. I don’t have anything to hide, yet I still feel like this is a test I could pass or fail, depending on my answers. Or that I could accidentally incriminate my sister.