I’m alone in the elevator—most of the other hosts and hostesses won’t arrive until later. I rise above San Francisco, staring down at the sparkling lights in the growing darkness.

“Hey, Echo,” the hostess at reception greets me. Too brightly. I fight the urge to narrow my eyes. Does she know? Does everyone know what actually happened in the back room three nights ago? Are they all being bribed a king’s ransom to keep quiet, or did the SFPD really manage to keep it under the radar?

I nod to her, and the brainload intel tells me her nickname is Pallua. All the hostesses choose nicknames. Psychological distancing, I guess. I was touched when I found out Tila’s was Echo. Now I’m the echo, a thin replica of Tila. Even my serviceable walk in heels is different from her feline prowl.

Through my VeriChip I’m able to bring up Tila’s employee file, but Nazarin had the owner expand my access. I bring up internal communications from the club over the last few days into my ocular implant overlay. Since the incident, nobody’s used the back room where the crime scene was. Everyone’s been told that a high roller’s rented it out for a long, exclusive Zeal trip.

I’ve been staring blankly into the distance for too long. Pallua looks down at her bright red nails. She’s a prototypical hostess—perfect features, perfect body, golden-brown skin, her hair a riot of purple, blue, and green. Tattoos of peacock feathers glow around one shoulder, snaking toward her breasts, which are on display in her low-cut gown.

I wave vaguely, and something stills in the other girl’s face. A crease appears in the smooth skin of her forehead, tense lines deepening next to painted lips. She swallows and busies herself with the reception desk. I rub my clammy palms discreetly on my dress, avoiding eye contact with the few other hosts and hostesses who are milling around Zenith waiting for their shifts to start.

“Your client’s waiting,” Pallua says, her bright smile back in place. “Cute, too.”

“Thanks.” I smile, hoping it reaches my eyes.

The door to the back room where I’m meant to be seems to stare at me, waiting for me to enter. I pause in front of it, take a deep breath, and the scanner reads my VeriChip, identifying me as Tila.

The door swooshes open. I step through and the dim lights brighten. Detective Nazarin waits for me, perched on a luxury sofa. He must have come in the rear entrance. He looks like a thug in the dark clothing that doesn’t quite obscure his shoulder holster.