Page 213 of Because I Killed Him
“Well, you should. Whoever runs that feed could tell you the color of Phillipa Prew’s underwear. Nobody on campus knew who Jerome really was until Tattletale dug him up—real name, family mess, all of it. After that, because he’s Winston’s black sheep, Jerome became campus entertainment. The Tattler says there are always lines out the door to get into his classes, or just to gawk at the show.”
That doesn’t add up. If everyone is scrambling for a spot in Jerome’s lecture room, why was there still one open for me?
I lean back in my seat, eyes on the congested aerial lanes ahead. Created for sex or not, the humiliation I feel over how much I love the Florence Engine fades quickly. I’m not going to toss the device aside just because the man who built it can’t keep his pants zipped. It still works. It still grounds me. It’s still mine, no matter what Jerome intended it for.
So I’m going to keep it.
Because some things don’t have to be what they were made for. Some things can be what you make them.
When I park the hovercar at the corner of Genesis Street, the Moonshine Mile glitters down the block like a cloud of spun sugar. The street should be beautiful—usually it is—but today it feels like a graveyard of dead memories. I force myself to look away. Ahead, the Genetic Engineering Facility looms, its iron gates bleached pale in the sunlight. There are no memories here, only the punishment I signed up for.
Jerome’s office is on the seventh floor. I check the facility map in the lobby and discover it’s even larger than my suite. The genetic engineering professors live up here, sealed away in luxury apartments with private workrooms attached for tutoring sessions. It must be convenient for Jerome: teach his students in one room, bed them in another.
Charlotte and I ride the elevator in tense silence, then step into a sconce-lit corridor that smells faintly of ozone and lab disinfectant. When we reach Jerome’s door and ring the bell, no one answers at first. I lean in and catch muffled voices inside: a man’s voice, calm and polite, and a woman’s, desperate and grief-stricken.
Finally, the door unlatches, and a handsome Pinkie greets us on the threshold. Charlotte and I lock eyes, silently agreeing on how human the robot looks. Its rose-colored suit is tailored to a frame that could bench-press a hovercar. Its face is sculpted with sharp, knife-edged features: broad jaw, severe yet regal cheekbones, and startling moss-green eyes that are too close in shade to Dad’s for comfort. Black hair sweeps into a deep side part, glossy and slick with pomade.
The Pinkie regards me with a polite expression, then bows with mechanical grace. “Good day, Miss Waldsten. I am Henry.”
I remember Jerome mentioned Henry in his email, specifying that the Pinkie hates smoking. But robots don’t hate anything. That’s the whole point. My eyes dart to the badge on its lapel, which readsModel Seven.
I frown, even more confused. There is no Pinkie Model Seven, which means the robot is unreleased, a prototype still crawling out of the lab. If this is what the next generation looks like, I pray it never goes public.
Henry lingers on my face, its moss-colored eyes creasing with what looks like amusement, and a chill needles down my spine. I’ve never once been afraid of artificial intelligence, not even when Charlotte and I trusted an autonomous hovercar to take us down a cliff road in a blizzard. But right now, I am.
Henry shifts aside enough to reveal a foyer adorned with weapons, one of which looks unmistakably like a flamethrower. At the room’s center stands a fifth-year Orange student, her cheeks red and blotchy, as if she’s been crying. She twists a strand of dark hair in her fingers, trying to stay composed, but the moment she sees Charlotte and me, the facade shatters.
“Henry,please,” she says, her hands curling fretfully in her sleeves. “Just tell Jerome I came by. Tell him I’m sorry, and that I—”
“Miss Shelley,” Henry interrupts softly. “Professor Jerome has expressly instructed me not to admit you. Your tutoring arrangement is concluded. There is no further reason for you to visit this suite.”
An airy sob escapes from her throat; she pushes it back so forcefully I feel a burn in my own chest. Only yesterday, I wore that same look, clinging to the hope that maybe I hadn’t lost Edmund yet.
“Don’t make me leave, Henry,” Miss Shelley begs. “Not until I speak with him. Please. Ilovehim.”
For a moment, Henry’s polite mask falters, as if even its circuits are recoiling. Then the robot pulls a handkerchief from its breast pocket and places it in Miss Shelley’s hands.
“I wish you a restful summer,” Henry says as it guides her to the exit. “Good day.”
Henry closes the door behind her and hesitates, with its back still turned. I watch the robot pull a small pink object from its pocket, which looks suspiciously like a pill, and place it carefully on its tongue before swallowing it dry. Then the Pinkie pivots to us, and its polite smile slides back into place.
“Apologies for the delay, Miss Waldsten, and—?” Henry pauses, studying Charlotte.
“Charlotte Deering,” she says breezily. “I’m just here for Lore. Oh, and where’s the pot?”
Henry tilts its head. “Pardon?”
“The toilet. I need it.”
The Pinkie raises its sculpted brow, looking so perfectly baffled that I elbow Charlotte in the ribs. She elbows me right back. “What? It’s a Pinkie. What does it care?” She flicks her hand toward Henry. “Go on, handsome. Point the way.”
Henry extends its arm and glides down a side corridor with Charlotte in tow. The robot returns alone, scanning my face with an unsettling, too-deep stare, as if it’s searching through every locked box in my mind. I rub gooseflesh from my arms, hating the way the Pinkie makes me feel.
Henry guides me down a narrow, overheated corridor lined withsharpshooting trophies and ushers me through a set of double doors into Jerome’s so-called office. The air is thick and muggy, reeking of energy drinks and the slow burn of bodies pressed too close for too long. Every surface is occupied: students slump on couches, slide down the walls, or droop half-conscious over tablets. Everyone looks wrung out and irritated, as if they’ve been waiting since last semester. Some probably have.
And dead center, in the middle of it all, is Jerome Glass.
He’s bare-chested, wearing a brocade robe that reveals the waistband of his orange boxers. A Sono-Chamber crackles around him, its nanobots casting a halo of light across his skin. The device is a high-end focus shield designed to eliminate distractions. We see Jerome, but he can’t see us. We hear him, but he can’t hear our sighs, complaints, or curses.
