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.

I open up the second file. I suck in my breath. I open more, reading through them quickly.

I’ve struck gold.