Page 48 of Because I Killed Him
That’s why the smell on my dress started fading. The Copper chose a method of killing Jane and me where the evidence self-destructs.
Dickie folds his arms and scoffs. “So, you’re saying it just vanished into thin air?”
“Yes, Mr. Langley,” the primary says. “Once Irasbis Gas disintegrates, even our most advanced spectrometers cannot detect it. Without surveillance footage, our only evidence is testimony. I assure you that we will interview the witnesses thoroughly. However, the students have already told us the incident did not appear organized or deliberate.”
Bullshit.
What’s more likely is that the studentsknowthe Copper murdered Jane but are too afraid to report it. Doing so risks pissing off other Bliss-addicted Coppers and will definitely piss off the Blues. Given how furious the high-citizens are about the ban, I wouldn’t be surprised if they ordered the hit themselves.
After promising to keep Dickie updated, the primary repeats that the carriage is off-limits to civilians. Our presence is disruptive, he says, and if we contaminate the scene, his neck will be on the line.
Dickie, Charlotte, and I step out of the green first-year carriage in a gloomy line and walk across the bustling platform, where students wait fortrams or special luggage deliveries. Defeat looms over me. If the Copper gets away with Jane’s murder, others will follow, picking us off one by one until everyone connected to the Bliss Prohibition Act is dead.
Dickie guides us into a private parking lot outside the train station. Jack waits in the driver’s seat of a matte green hovercar with flared fenders, gullwing doors, and a decorative Art Deco grille set into the nose. The power core roars at idle, raw and overclocked, making it stand out from the others like a grenade in a field of dandelions.
Charlotte wrinkles her nose as she slides into a plush leather seat and fastens her seatbelt. She pushes her coat under her butt and tucks her arms in, clearly disgusted by the idea of touching anything.
I grip the back of Dickie’s headrest as Jack lifts out of the parking lot. Jack turns on the radio—a catchy Big Band tune that’s topped the charts for the past month—but no one sings along. Charlotte smokes quietly across from me; Dickie picks at his nails, as if nervous about leaving the train station without a chaperone; and I wonder whether it’s possible to access the passenger manifest for the green first-year carriage. With Charlotte’s and Dickie’s help, maybe we can convince a student to testify against the Copper.
Or maybe…
“Dickie.” I tap his shoulder. “Did your Pinkie film all the time, or only when it was with you?”
Dickie props his feet on the dashboard with a sigh, clearly bored with this topic. “All the time, I guess.”
“And how often did the robot send reports to the Office of Student Affairs?”
“I don’t know, but—” Dickie’s eyes bug out in realization. “I think once every five or ten minutes.”
“And do you have access to those reports?”
He slaps his knee with a triumphant chuckle. “No, but I cangetit.”
I swell up in my seat. For the first time all day, the ground beneath my feet feels more solid than quicksand. The Copper wouldn’t have risked attacking the Pinkie if it hadn’t witnessed Jane’s murder. And if the robot managed to send a report to the Office of Student Affairs before the Copper destroyed its data chip, we’ll have all the evidence we need to nail that bastard to the wall.
Jack follows the line of hovercars lifting out of the station into an aeriallane leading to the dormitories. Below, another street extends past the Regal Express, crowded with parked luxury vehicles and private chauffeurs. Pinkies linger at curb level with parasols, cigars, and silver cocktail trays, poised to serve the Blues.
Steam hisses from the train’s undercarriage as the doors swing open wide. The high-citizens disembark in small groups, either all Blues or one Blue flanked by a low-citizen entourage. They move as if they have pills of immortality melting on their tongues. They’re man-made gods with sun-warmed skin and sport-sculpted bodies, dressed in custom suits and gowns crafted by Lemon, the most expensive fashion brand money can buy.
Watching them flood the platform, laughing and shouting, unbound by behavior laws, ignites a spark of envy in me.
I spot Harrison crossing the crowded platform, trailing behind his Blue. His face looks cloudy and grim, as if he got an earful on the ride. I won’t blame him if he keeps his distance on campus, but I hope his avoidance ends with me. If he calls off his engagement to Vivian, she’ll never recover. She’ll blame Dad for ruining her life. And if that happens, the fractures in our family will widen into a full break.
Moments later, Edmund steps off the blue first-year carriage with a tall, elegant woman beside him. She’s holding a springer spaniel like a handbag and wearing a midnight blue gown with beaded detailing and a long, sheer train. Her porcelain skin is taut with muscle, and her upturned blue eyes sweep over the crowd as if she owns it. A cloche-style headpiece fits closely over her sleek black bob, cut stylishly at the jaw; every strand is purposeful, just like the rest of her. Whoever designed her genetic profile seemed to value beauty and strength equally.
Charlotte tracks Edmund and the woman for a few steps, frowning deeply. Then she draws a sharp breath and slaps the back of Jack’s head. “What the hell, Jack?That’sEdmund’s fiancée?”
Jack squints at the woman. “Yeah. So?”
“So, you told me he was engaged toanIrene. NottheIrene.”
“I didn’t realize the Irenes had a leader, darling.”
Charlotte lets out a dry snort, but her face remains grave. She elbows me in the ribs. “It’s bad, Lore… like lose every civil credit you’ve got bad. Edmund’s fiancée is aHussey.”
I duck below the window with a curse, hoping neither of them spots Jack’s hovercar. The name triggers memories of Dad pacing his study, ranting to Mom about the Husseys’ slimeball tactics: planted hit pieces, bought-off journalists, smear campaigns that painted him as a bribe-taker, an adulterer, even a secret Bliss addict. The Husseys have been driving a knife into his ribs since the day he started pushing for the Bliss ban, twisting it every chance they get. They wield an even greater sphere of influence than the Prews, primarily because they founded Rapture, the largest Bliss manufacturer in the Civilized World.
Of all the Blues, of all the families, why the hell did it have to be her?
