“Well, speaking of bodies,” said Julian boldly. “Another big part of this discussion is the question of how do we legislate their bodies? A person in the United States does have the right to bear arms, but the arms are not a part of their person, a part of their body, and in some circumstances, that right can be revoked. A felon cannot bear arms. An individual with extreme mental illness cannot bear arms. And we are talking about a being with, at minimum, profound defensive powers, and, as Brigadier General Porter testified yesterday, we do know those defensive powers can turn offensive. How do we legislate their offensive capabilities?”

Cora racked her brain for what he could be talking about. Was he talking about Ampersand’s telekinetic shove when he had arrived at Pershing Square to clear the area? Had he considered that offensive, and not defensive? Given the information she knew to be available to the senators, she didn’t know what else he could be referring to.

Julian shuffled his papers around and then pulled out one color printout. A portrait. “I would like to enter this into the record.”

The portrait stared back at her, smiling jovially, creeping up on her like a light chill before morphing into a thick icicle stabbing her in the chest. The portrait was of a young Korean American man in his late twenties, his hair clipped short, his eyes sparkling with real pride. An official photograph taken from when he was still with the CIA. From when he was still alive.

Julian held up the photograph, making sure everyone in the room, including the cameras, got a good look at it. Then he looked at Cora, his lips curving into a satisfied smile. “Do you recognize the man in this image?”

Vincent Park.

Vincent Park hadn’t even been publicly listed as killed in action. His star on the CIA memorial wall had gone nameless. Her mind splintered into a hundred directions, stampeding down a hundred different paths, trying to preempt what else they must know if they knew about Vincent.

Even Kaveh didn’t know about Vincent.

“This man was Agent Vincent Park of the CIA. You were the last person to see him alive, were you not?” asked Julian.

Cora’s throat had turned to cotton, her tongue to sandpaper. She tried to close her mouth, tried to swallow. “I can’t answer that definitively.”

“Then let me rephrase that—you were the last person to see him alive who survived the altercation that killed him, were you not?”

She knew she should say, “I don’t know,” because in an ecclesiastical sense, she didn’t. She hadn’t watched him die, she didn’t know what else had happened in the couple of minutes leading up to his death.

Instead, she answered, “Yes.”