Page 21 of Because I Killed Him
“No. It isn’t,” Harrison counters. “Not when it’s for reporting purposes.”
“Reporting purposes, my ass. That purple-eyed insect is probably on the Blues’ payroll.”
Right now, I don’t care whose payroll Bogart is on. Not only is he painting Dad as a villain, but he’s also broadcasting our faces to millions of people who want us dead. Even if murder sends you to the guillotine, desperate people in withdrawal won’t care. They’ll come for me at Grandmaster, for Dad at the Capitol Estate, and for Mom, Hillaire, and Vivian at home.
“Harry, youhaveto turn the plane around,” I say.
“I would if I could, Lore, but we don’t have enough fuel.”
“Then we’ll refuel when we land. You and Charlotte can deboard, and I’ll fly home alone.”
Harrison and Charlotte trade a glance, almost too quick to catch, but it communicates the situation clearly.
“The Coppers inspect every aircraft that lands,” Harrison says. “You’re still a Private Person, Lore, and you don’t have special permission to enter the Rainbow District. Unless you become a Public Person, they’ll slap you with an illegal entry charge.”
“How is that possible if I don’t leave the plane?”
“Because landing is considered entry.”
I glance out the window, searching for a glimpse of the Rainbow District in the distance, feeling like I’m going to be sick. The sky remains overcast, with a soft pink-and-gold glow from the sunrise tracing the clouds. I check my Bond, expecting a flood of messages from my parents, but my inbox is empty. Neither of them answers when I try to call. Mom is probably still asleep, while Dad is likely still in the council chamber, where personal devices are banned.
I turn into the corridor, making it only halfway to my bedroom before panic sets in. The protest footage from Bogart’s broadcast flashes through my mind, fast and disjointed, like the aftermath of a car crash. I brace myself against the wall, my chest locking up as I imagine a violent mob waiting for me on the landing strip at Roaring Rails Station.
We expected this, I remind myself. Whenever my family talked about the possibility of Bliss being banned, Dad warned that the backlash from losing access to the drug could be strong enough to blow a hole in the side of the Civilized World. And yet a part of me is still surprised.
Heels click on the floor behind me, followed by warm fingers touching my shoulder. “What can I do, Lore?” Charlotte asks.
“Check if Harrison’s got a parachute in the cargo hold.”
“The plane isn’t high enough, Lore. Not unless you can jump from a thousand feet.”
She knows I’m not serious, but I appreciate that she humors me.
Harrison approaches us with a determined stride, as if already lookingfor solutions. His Bond is activated, and his skin looks ghostly in the blue glow of his left eye. “How many security drones does your family have?” he asks.
“Ten, I think. Maybe a few more.”
“Ten? You’ll need fifty now. I’ll have them at your house by tonight.” He works on his Bond for a moment longer, then pauses to look at me. “My advice isn’t just advice anymore, Lore. Youneedto join an entourage.”
“How?” I ask. “Most Blues use Bliss, so why would they protect the daughter of the man who banned it?”
“They wouldn’t,” Charlotte cuts in. She shoots Harrison a glare, as if telling him to drop the entourage idea, then glides her hand comfortingly down my back.
“Attention passengers, we are approaching the end of our descent,” an automated voice crackles over the PA system. “Please prepare for landing.”
Harrison jumps up as if realizing he’s still in his pajamas. He excuses himself, nearly bumping into a Pinkie carrying a large black case as he hurries toward his bedroom. The robot gracefully sidesteps him, then approaches me with a curtsy.
“Good day, Miss Waldsten. Please allow me to assist.”
I walk mechanically as I follow the Pinkie to the sofa, where it opens the black case and uses the makeup inside to restore color to my face. I force myself to stay still as the robot paints my lips and curls my lashes, but its gentle touch only heightens my anxiety. Even if there’s a way out, some legal loophole I can use to get home to my family, I don’t have the time or the expertise to figure it out. The best I can hope for is that Dad is right:As rotten as our system is, we still have the rule of law.
The Pinkie works quickly, styling my hair into loose finger waves and pinning it back with a gold chevron comb. My diamond jewelry shifts against my sweaty neck as I slip into a green, floor-length gown with a column silhouette and short beaded fringe sleeves.
As the Pinkie fastens the buttons, Charlotte drops onto a sofa beside me and lights a cigarette with trembling fingers. “Harry’s advice about us sticking together doesn’t sound so bad now, does it?”
I face her slowly. “You’re seriously thinking about staying with me?”
“Of course.”
