Page 7 of Because I Killed Him
The elevator doors begin to close when a large hand slips through the narrowing gap. The doors shudder and reopen, revealing a tall robot dressed in a pink wool suit, its blond hair combed into a sculpted wave and its square face set in a polite expression. The robot moves with fluid, eerily humanlike motions, which is why all robots are required to distinguish themselves from humans by wearing pink. The rule earned them the nickname “Pinkies.”
“Good day, Miss Waldsten.” The Pinkie bows in greeting. “Pardon my intrusion, but I wished to inform you that I have mailed most of your belongings to Grandmaster University.”
“Not all?”
“All but one.” The robot pulls a broken digital picture frame from its breast pocket. “I discovered this photograph beneath your bed while packing your room.”
The Pinkie offers me the shattered photo, but I don’t take it. A familiar pain tightens in my chest as I examine the two smiling faces, barely visible through the cracked screen. Charlotte’s dark-skinned arm is draped over my shoulder, and mine is wrapped around her waist. A jeweled comb glitters in her silky black hair, mirroring the sparkle of my diamond-and-feather headband. The digital caption dates the photo to two years ago, on tap dance night at the Midnight Martini Club.
The last time I saw her.
“Given the damage, I thought it appropriate to set the photograph aside,” the Pinkie continues. “However, if you wish, I can repair—”
“It’s damaged because I damaged it,” I say.
“So, you do not wish to have it repaired?”
“No. You can throw it out.”
The Pinkie bows. “As you wish, Miss Waldsten. Good evening.”
The elevator doors close. As the car descends, I’m struck by a bitterness that hits me like a rush of cold air. It’s an old feeling, but today it feels as fresh as a torn scab. I steel myself against it rather than let it drag me down, like I used to.
I thought I’d moved past Charlotte’s betrayal. I didn’t bat an eyelash when I learned she’d been accepted to Grandmaster University. But now I realize her long, serrated knife is still lodged in my back. I’ve just gotten used to the pain.
When the elevator stops on the first floor, I walk directly to the dining hall. The path leads through a foyer decorated with portraits and a conservatory filled with jasmine and freshly watered plants. I pass a smoky billiards room and a library with a spiral staircase, where two voices echo from the open door. My parents.
Mom paces the library, her stilettos clicking like spilled marbles, while Dad explains that I’m still determined to become a Public Person and attend Grandmaster University. Mom’s face falls as she listens. Her legs buckle slightly, and she braces herself against a bookshelf with a startled gasp. Like Dad, I know she thought watching Bloody Sunday would change my mind. Dad moves in and catches her, cupping the back of her head as she melts into his chest, sobbing.
“She won’t survive it, Bruce. She’s not even allowed to defend herself.”
Dad pulls her closer, a muscle tightening in his cheek, yet he stays silent.
I turn away, conflicted. This isn’t what I want. I don’t want to hurt my family or make them worry. I just want to get my life back on track. It’s all I’ve worked for over the past year. Now that I finally have the chance, I can’t let it slip away, even though attending Grandmaster comes with risks. If I wait until I’m twenty-one to become a Public Person, the same danger will still be there. There’s no avoiding it, only delaying it.
Fighting a surge of guilt, I hurry past the library to the dining hall. The Pinkies have already lit a fire, and the air smells of burning beechwood. A black marble clock ticks on the overhanging carved mantle, where one of my fencing trophies is displayed, a daily reminder of what I’ve lost. A Pinkie in a drop-waist dress arranges the table: five place settings with gilded plates, long-stemmed wine glasses, bone-colored linen napkins, and silver cutlery that gleams in the light of the crystal chandelier.
The dining chairs are empty, but outside on the terrace, a faint shadow moves slowly and purposefully across the flagstones.
“Loredana,” Hillaire calls.
I don’t respond. Instead, I grab an open bottle of red wine from a sideboard and drink to wash away the bile in my throat. After drying my mouth with a napkin, I head onto the terrace with the bottle tucked under my arm, even though I know I should take it easy. I’ve only been drinking for two months, since I turned eighteen and officially became an adult. Any age younger than that, and you might as well be a child: no drinking, smoking, voting, driving, not even dating.
Outside, Hillaire stands at the terrace railing, her face turned toward the dimly lit topiary gardens lining the drive. It’s too dark to see much beyond the glowing lampposts, yet she seems focused on something near the tennis court.
“I waved at you from the tree,” she says, turning at the sound of my approach. Though short, with a childlike frame, she still appears older than fourteen. Tonight, she looks especially thin beneath the relaxed fit of her green pantsuit. The strands of her white-blonde bob are frozen around her face, as if she used an entire can of hairspray.
“I saw,” I reply.
“But you didn’t wave back.”
“I was too busy trying not to puke.”
Hillaire’s eyebrow arches high. “So you’re admitting you lost your grip?”
“No. I watched every beheading.”
“How many?”
