False Hearts (False Hearts #1)(60)

I do know where Tila hides her secrets.

She showed it to me once, not long after she moved in. It was to be her version of the cookie jar, where I could leave her messages if I was passing by. Such a childish game, but I’d appreciated it. Yet in all the months she lived here, I never left her any messages. I kept meaning to, but never did. Hers were always so clever, so thoughtful, and when I tried to think up a return message, they all seemed unbearably dull. She never mentioned the lack of baubles and notes. I never knew if she was hurt by that or not.

I go to her spare bedroom, grunting as I pull back the bed. Another reason I didn’t leave messages: it’s harder to get to than a cookie jar in the kitchen. Tila was always the more paranoid of us, though, and now I understand why.

I can’t see any evidence that the police moved the bed, and the cubbyhole she built behind it seems untouched. I take the key she gave me from my purse and put it into the lock, and the door swings open.

Inside are another sketchbook and a datapod. The pod is only the size of my thumbnail. I want to bring it up on my implants right away, but I’m also afraid of what it may contain.

I open the sketchbook. The first few pages are blank, but near the end, the pages are filled.

The style is looser, more abstract. It’s how she draws when she’s drawing from memory rather than from a model. These faces, though still beautiful and symmetrical in the way of San Franciscans, are harder. Some have scars or predatory tattoos. Hissing snakes inked around a neck, the fangs of the open mouth framing a cheekbone, the forked tongue tasting the skin. They look like criminals. Their names are written next to them, too. A fair-haired man named Hatchet. A Japanese woman with long, sleek hair named Haruka.

The next page has a more detailed drawing of a man with the too-smooth skin and haunted eyes that mark him as older. He has a luxurious mane of dark curls around his face, high cheekbones and symmetrical features that are purposefully not perfect. The mouth is wide, the nose long and thin. He has a mole just under his left eye, with a tattoo of a crescent moon around it. Next to the sketch is the name in our secret alphabet: Ensi.

Here he is. The King of the Ratel. I lean close, until my nose almost touches the paper. I memorize every detail about him. This is who Tila was after. Who I am now after.

I turn the page. There is Malka, the Queen of the Ratel, supermodel beautiful, dark hair in long ringlets around her face, a quizzical smile on her face. A few pages later, among other hardened-looking criminals, is an unmistakable sketch of Nazarin. He looks crueler here, his eyes shadowed by his brow, the scars on his head sharper. His sketch is detailed. She’d drawn this from life. The name next to him is “Skel.”

Nazarin himself has told me he’s met her a time or two before, so it shouldn’t surprise me that he’s there with the other members of the Ratel, but it’s still so strange to see a sketch of him done by my sister. There’s a familiarity to the drawing that gives me pause.

I close the sketchbook and go to the kitchen. I log into my messages on the wallscreen. I want to turn something on and zone out and forget about my life, at least for a few moments.

Of course, it’s Tila’s account on the screen, not mine, because my VeriChip is under her identity. It makes me wonder: did they change Tila’s chip too, and, legally, is it Taema who’s in prison and Tila’s who’s free? Or is she a non-person at the moment?

I shake my head. Curiosity gets the better of me and I delve into her inbox with the same systematic ruthlessness as her apartment. Everything is squeaky clean, nothing stands out. I enable the motion sensors and flick my hands, bringing up her remote storage. I go through each folder, taking my time. I grab a glass of Synthehol white wine, knocking it down far quicker than I should. I stop once I feel a little fuzzy around the edges, numbing the pain.

It takes me a long time to go through my sister’s files. I look through all the photos, many of us together, smiling identical smiles. I spend a lot of time looking at the ones from our trip around the world. I got a big return on the initial investment in VivaFog when it was officially bought by the city, and I used some of the money to take three months off work and take Tila with me around the world. We went absolutely everywhere: Jakarta, New Cairo, New Tokyo, Auckland … so many places with such vivid memories. No country we were remotely interested in went unvisited. It changed both of us, seeing things so far outside of our limited realm of the Hearth and San Francisco. So many different ways to live.

Nothing suspicious is there. That’s because it’ll all be in the datapod.

I finally pick it up again. Such a small thing, nestled into the palm of my hand, the swirling designs on the metal like a seashell. I sigh, and put it in my ear.

The datapod connects to my auditory implants and begins to download information directly to my ocular ones. I focus on the white expanse of the table. The information within is for my eyes alone.

A folder called “Eko” flashes before me, a misspelling of her Zenith name. Within are some files with gibberish titles. I pour another glass of the ersatz wine and drain half of it, and then open the top file.

The first file is an invitation to a party, and my eyebrows rise in surprise. It’s the same one Nazarin is going to on Saturday. Did he know Tila had an invitation? It’s at the Xanadu. A reclusive millionaire named Alex Kynon is said to own the historic building, rebuilt perfectly after the Great Quake to mirror Frank Lloyd Wright’s original design. I’ve never heard of a party, or anyone going there. I also never realized whoever owned it was tied up with the Ratel, but considering how secretive they are, I suppose that’s not too surprising.