“I will try to collect as much DNA as I can during the autopsy,” Doc says as two Shippers lift the body onto the electric cart.

I want to say: I think I know who did this.

“Do you think there will be enough to identify the murderer?” Elder asks. “I’ll grant you access to the biometric scanner database.”

Doc starts to follow the cart. “There might be something under her fingernails I can use. If not, I believe there will be seminal fluid present in this case. It may take a couple of days to process and run it through all the records.”

I want to say: I only met her once, but I feel like I knew her better than any of you.

As Doc leaves, Elder gathers the Shippers together. “Shelby, see if there’s any kind of vid feed of this area from when the girl was attacked. Buck, I’d like you to track down any Feeders in the area and question them; maybe there were witnesses to what happened here.”

I open my mouth. I want to say: I’m breaking, and I need someone to hold me together.

But no sound comes out. I feel the hands around my throat, crushing my windpipe. I swallow dryly. He’s not here. Not anymore. He killed her and left.

I try to speak again. I should speak, I have to speak.

But I can’t.

Instead, I run.

My body thrills at this—I haven’t run in ages. I’ve been too scared to go on my daily runs, but now I’m not running as I would for exercise. I’m running as if the force of the wind whipping around my body will be enough to keep all the pieces of me from crumbling.

Past the fence, down the path, past the soy fields. When I get to the main road that connects the Recorder Hall and the Hospital, I go straight to the Hall. I don’t know why. I should hate this place. The last time I saw Luthor, it was here, in the Recorder Hall. But I’m certain, more certain than anything else, that the clue Orion left for me is here, and maybe if I can find that clue, I can also find something to make things right again.

I’m still running as I enter the Hall, pass the groups of people pouring over the wall floppies, and head straight to the fiction room. I throw open the door so hard that it bounces off the wall, and I don’t pause until I reach the shelf that holds the book I’m looking for.

I slide the heavy book off the shelf, panting in an effort to catch my breath. An image is pressed into the front cover. A girl, a tree, and a smiling cat. The binding is cracked with age, the illustration faded. My heart races as I carry the book to the table in the middle of the room. I collapse into a chair and let the book thunk heavily on the metal tabletop. I can imagine Elder’s look of disdain at the way I let it slam against the surface. He treats books like treasured, rare things, and I guess they are, but my father used to dog-ear books and read them until they fell apart, and I like his method better.