The police look between us. They are all wearing bulletproof Kalar vests over their sleek, dark blue uniforms. Cops almost never wear Kalars, not in this city that prides itself on its lack of crime. The whites of their eyes shimmer in the light with their extra implants.

An Indian-American woman with curly hair tamed in a knot at the nape of her neck clutches her gun, shifting her stance. The other man, white and brown-haired with a face so generically good-looking I’ll forget what he looks like as soon as he leaves the room, begins to make a perimeter of my apartment. Perhaps he thinks extra backup is hiding behind the couch. The last man, their leader, is black with a gold tattoo I can’t make out peeking over the collar of his uniform. He narrows his eyes at us, focusing on Tila and her teal hair: “Tila Collins?”

She doesn’t answer, keeping her head bowed.

He steps forward and grabs her upper arms. For a second, I fear she’s going to resist and try to run for it, but then she goes limp.

“What’s going on here?” I ask. “She says she hasn’t done it, whatever you’re after her for.”

They ignore me. Gold Tattoo says, “Tila Collins, you are under arrest for murder in the first degree. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you.”

When was the last time he had to read anyone their Miranda rights?

Gold Tattoo pulls Tila from my grasp. My hands fall useless at my sides. Tila tilts her head up at him and spits in his face.

Gold Tattoo wipes the spittle away, expressionless.

The wind leaves my lungs as the full implications sink in. Murder. There hasn’t been a murder by a civilian in San Francisco in years. Not since Pacifica was formed after the United States fractured forty years ago. Not since VeriChips and implants and cameras on every corner.

“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?