“Can we see it? I know it’s personal, Creighton, and it has to be hard—”

“No, it’s fine. Alistair, please pull up my father’s suicide message.”

Abby watched it intently. When it ended, she turned to me, her brown eyes full of compassion. “I’m very sorry, Creighton. I know how hard it was when I lost my dad.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you have brothers or sisters?”

“No, I’m an only child.”

“And what about your mother? Were they divorced?” Her voice was tender, as though she was concerned that I was left alone in the world. Just as she was. “They were life partners.”

“That phrase confuses me. Does that mean they were supposed to be together for life?”

“No, life partner isn’t actually for life. It’s a ten-year, renewable commitment. It serves the purpose marriage used to serve, except most people don’t renew. My parents hadn’t seen each other since I was six.”

Her brows furrowed. “So you were your dad’s only close family member.”

“Yes, you could definitely say that.” I paused. “Why?”

“I don’t mean to pry, but did it hurt your feelings that your father failed to mention you in his message? That he gave a general farewell? I didn’t grow up here, but it seems…Well, I don’t want to be critical of your father.”

I got up and walked to the kitchen. My father’s failure to mention me had bothered me. Did his own son mean so little to him that he wouldn’t address him by name in a suicide message? I poured more coffee and walked back to the living room. I stopped just as I was about to sit down and looked at Abby.

“What is it?” she asked.

“A thought. What if my father’s suicide message was faked?”

“Faked? Is that possible?”

I sat next to her. “Absolutely. Someone would only need an electronic image of him and a voice recording. From those, a Grid program could construct a visual message of him saying and doing just about anything.”

Abby straightened on the couch. “Creighton, could someone tell if that had been done?”

“A holographic designer could probably determine that—a really good one, I mean. Someone who knew what he was doing.”

Abby’s eyes widened. “Sabin is a holographic designer.”

“He is?” I considered that for a moment, then shook my head. “We can’t contact Sabin.”

“Why not?”

“Because we don’t know if we can trust him, Abby. We’re only hoping.”

I could see her shoulders slump. “I think we can, but I understand what you’re saying.” She paused. “What about another designer?”

That thought had already occurred to me. “No, we can’t risk that, either. Not yet, anyway. If a designer determined it was a fake, that would make it a homicide. He’d immediately notify the police. At the moment, that’s the last thing we want.”

23