The fact is, I’m just as flummoxed. Why would Tila leave me a sign? And why that as a sign? She had no way to anticipate how all this would play out … did she?

I feel sick. I back away from the blood and the scratched coffee table, breathing loudly, and move to the bay window, looking out over the cloudy San Francisco day. The sailboats are coming into port, the hovercars leaving and arriving the Embarcadero to and from their sundry destinations. The sun is setting, and everything glows that soft pink and purple of approaching dusk.

Detective Nazarin glides to my side, silent. I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window. Throughout it all, my mechanical heartbeat has barely quickened. Somewhere out there, Tila is in her cell, and her heartbeat is more or less in time with mine.

“What does it say?” Nazarin asks. He’s close to me now, but his voice is gentle, and his breath puffs on the back of my neck, smelling of spearmint. But the gentleness is a ruse—underneath he’s all steel.

I could lie. Tell him it means something else, and they’d never be able to follow the path any further. Then I could try and do it on my own. But I wouldn’t be able to, would I? If Tila is involved with the Ratel, then I don’t know the first thing about how to deal with them.

Nazarin does.

“‘MIA,’” I say, still turned to the window. My breath mists the glass. With a fingertip, I write the letters in our secret alphabet.

“And what’s that? Missing in Action?”

“It’s not a what. It’s a who. Mia. The woman who took us in after we left the Hearth.”

“Why do you think she wrote that name? Where can we find her?”

I shrug, wrapping my arms around myself. I want to go home and close my eyes and wake up and have everything fixed.

“She’s an apostate of the Hearth. Like us. She got Tila into hostessing. Used to be one of the best in the city. But now she’s a Zealot. We can find her at the Mirage in the Mission district.”

“That’s a shithole.”

“Yeah. But the Ratel haven’t tampered with the Zeal there and replaced it with Verve?” I ask.

“Not that I know. Fuck.” He rubs his hand over his shaved head. “If they have, it’s dangerous to go there. Someone could be watching.”

I say nothing.

“She’ll be there now?”

“She’s always there.”

“Then let’s go.”

Nazarin accesses his implant, and the crime scene hologram disintegrates into nothing.

*   *   *