“And do you stay overnight?” Officer Oloyu asks. He shifts in his chair, probably aroused and uncomfortable with it.

Tila shrugs a shoulder, the movement seamless and elegant. “Sometimes. Not that often. I have to actually like the person. Want to spend more time with them. Most of the time, I’m happy enough just to stay in the bar and chat and laugh with them. It’s a good job. Was a good job.”

She falters, and her mask slips. There’s the vulnerable side of my sister. The side that only I see. Then it flits back up, and she’s back to figuring out how she can wrap him around her finger. With a dip of my stomach, I realize I’ve seen her use that expression on me, too.

Here, in the brainload, I finally let myself think what I’ve avoided thinking for some time now: has she used me too? But at the same time, I wonder if it’s like back in the Hearth. Where my own mind couldn’t be trusted, and Tila had to spend weeks convincing me that we needed to escape. I shy away from that, unable just now to cope with the guilt of how I once believed in Mana-ma unfalteringly.

“And was your night with Vuk an overnight stay?”

She shakes her head. “No. He liked Leylani for that. I was only a hostess to him.” Her eyes slide to the side, and I know she’s keeping something back.

“Right. We need a list of all the people you work with, and what they look like. Your file says you’re an artist, so perhaps you can draw them?” Oloyu clears his throat.

My sister narrows her eyes. “Is this for Taema?”

Oloyu hesitates, as if he’s not sure if he should answer. “This is to help with the investigation.”

She fidgets. “And I have to do it?”

What is she thinking? It used to be I’d always know. She’s hesitating, not jumping to help until she knows all sides, works out her advantage. Altruism is not a trait my sister inherited. Not even for me.

When I’m awake, I don’t think such nasty thoughts about her. Why am I so cruel when my body is unconscious?

“You agreed you would,” Oloyu continues.

Her mouth twists, but she takes the proffered drawing paper and pencil. She pauses before she draws, tapping the pencil against the table. Why haven’t they given her a tablet? Finally, she brings the pencil to paper.

It fast-forwards her drawing, but I stare at her furrowed brow and the way her hair obscures half her face. How many times have I watched her draw?