“Miss Collins?” There might be a hint of concern behind the brusque tone. He’s close enough that I can make out his tattoo: a California grizzly bear.

I find my voice. “My sister’s just been taken for murder. How do you think I feel?”

He has no answer to that. Within moments, the sirens blare again as they take my sister away from me.

“Who’s she meant to have murdered?” I ask, my voice tight. That word again. It’s ugly.

“A body of a man was found at Zenith under suspicious circumstances. I can’t say anything more.”

My hands ball into fists. Gold Tattoo notices the movement, his hand resting on his gun. My lungs burn from holding in the sobs.

He pauses. I realize why he’s stayed behind.

“I’m to go in for questioning too? Why didn’t you take me with Tila?”

He shifts slightly. “Yes, Miss Collins. We’re to take you in as a precaution. You’ll be going to the station. Your sister is being taken elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

I fold over, trying to take in deep breaths but still hyperventilating.

“Miss Collins.”

I hold up a hand. I think of the Hearth, how Mana-ma taught us to control our emotions. Let the darkness float away. Let in only the light. I imagine the chapel on the hill at the center of the town, the five-pointed symbol carved on its side, the bird-calls that floated through the open windows on a spring day. Despite my hatred of her, her techniques work.

I stand up, smoothing my features, shaking my head a little from side to side. “Yes. We have the same DNA. You’ll want to make sure I didn’t do it.”

He says nothing.

“Am I under arrest?”

“No. You’re being detained for questioning. Please grab your things, Miss Collins.”

I look around at my apartment. The wet footprints all over the carpet. The shining bits of glass. The food cold on the table, the plates laid out for a meal we will never eat.

I grab my coat and purse.

As he leads me down the stairs, curiosity seems to get the better of him. “I shouldn’t ask, but do you really think she didn’t do it?”

I pause. I still think he’s been waxworked—he’s too highly ranked to be any younger than late thirties—but his eyes aren’t quite as jaded as a lot of older people masquerading in younger bodies.

My hand snakes toward my sternum again, pressing against the faint seam where they unzipped me and Tila and took us apart a decade ago. Underneath, my mechanical heart beats, beats, beats.

“I know my twin better than anyone else. If she says she didn’t do it, then she didn’t.”

I’m sure I believe it.

Ninety-nine percent sure.

2. Taema

TWO

TAEMA