I bet she’s driving the police up the walls. She knows how to toy with people.

“Can I speak with her?”

He shrugs a little. “She doesn’t want to speak with anyone. Even you. Specifically demanded it, actually.”

I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. Why the hell wouldn’t she want to see me? It’s all I’ve been thinking about since her arrest. If I could just see her, talk to her, clear these doubts—I know I could help her. If she’d let me.

“The man she killed—” Officer Oloyu begins.

“Is accused of killing,” I interrupt, my voice razor-sharp.

With a sardonic smile, he tilts his head. “Vuk was a hitman for the Ratel.”

My stomach plummets. I take a few sips of the tepid water to give me time to untangle my thoughts. “Was he … after Tila?” She could have died yesterday. I hadn’t really considered that before now. I swallow, hoping my thoughts aren’t flitting across my face. Why would she be a target?

“We don’t know if he was actually out for your sister. Our sources say he wasn’t on assignment last night, but our sources could be wrong.”

“Seems like there’s a lot you don’t know.” I’m testy, but he’s still dangling what he really wants from me out of reach, and I’m impatient and frightened.

Officer Oloyu ignores the comment. “Your sister wasn’t meant to be working last night. Another hostess, a woman named Leylani, was meant to be manning the Zeal lounge, but she never showed up for work.”

I sag a little with relief. “See? Tila could have come into the wrong room at the wrong time, had to defend herself against this Vuk. But do you even know if that could have happened? Is there a murder weapon, and if so, can you link it to her? What about the cameras in the Zeal lounge? You couldn’t have found a murder weapon, or she’d be charged rather than just accused. How do you know she has anything to do with this?” The questions fall from my lips, faster and faster, until I’m breathless.

“Funny,” Oloyu says. “When we interviewed your sister, she posed the same scenario. Almost verbatim.”

I glare at him, but he only stares at me calmly, and then makes a gesture with his fingers. The wallscreen to my left turns on. It’s a recording from my interrogation yesterday, my eyes blazing at Officer Oloyu. That angry, I look more like my sister than the woman I see in the mirror every morning. I watch myself snarling at him: “You can’t spend sixteen years with someone, every minute of every day, and not know if they’re capable of murder or not. I’ll do whatever it takes to clear her name.”

He flicks it off. “Do you still mean that?”