Page 65 of Because I Killed Him
“And how was Mr. Prew’s physical state?”
I recall Edmund’s sweaty face, the scratches on his skin smeared with blood, his torn vest, and his damp hair sticking wildly to his forehead. I tell Irene as much, but the words don’t sit right in my mouth. Something doesn’t add up.
Jack and Dickie told me that Edmund was with Irene before hediscovered Charlotte and me in his salon. That’s not true, though. I can see it in the way Irene snaps the rifle parts together with angry clicks.
“Did Mr. Prew mention which salon he was in previously?” she asks.
“No. Mr. Carroway and Mr. Langley told me he was with you.”
Irene’s mind works for a moment before the coldness in her eyes begins to ease. “I have an offer for you, Miss Waldsten.” She pauses to replace the rifle magazine, punching it firmly into place with her palm. Then she slides the bolt back and forth to check the action. “I wish for you to befriend Mr. Prew and remain in his company. During that time, you’ll provide me with a list of everyone he meets with, except Mr. Carroway and Mr. Langley. Most importantly, you’ll uncover the identities of the women he’s meeting with.”
Women? I suddenly realize the lipstick smudge I saw on Edmund’s cheek on the train wasn’t Irene’s. Is he cheating on her? Beneath the anger tightening her face, I notice traces of humiliation, even a flicker of hurt. It makes me wonder whether, despite the Tattletale article claiming that Irene and Edmund despise each other, there’s still something between them, at least on her end.
“You want to make a formal agreement?” I ask.
“No.” Irene crouches and strokes the springer spaniel beneath the table. “You’ll take me at myword.”
There can only be one reason for that. She doesn’t want our agreement on record. A high-citizen asking a low-citizen to expose a cheating fiancé—Irene can’t risk that getting out.
“What are your terms?”
The five Blues rise from their chairs in quiet, synchronized motion. As they pull up behind Irene, my Pinkies close around me, forming a defensive line.
“You have until December to uncover the women’s identities,” Irene says. “After that, you’ll drop out of Grandmaster and return to the Green District.”
“And if I don’t find out who the women are?”
“Then the deal is void.”
I pause to make Irene think I’m considering her offer. I find her fixation on the women odd. People say there’s hardly a Blue marriage withoutinfidelity, mainly because most are arranged. The promise of unfaithfulness is practically built into the proposal itself. Irene had to know what she was getting into when she agreed to marry Edmund.
“Why do you want their names?” I ask.
“I wish to know who has dishonored me.”
I nod slowly as I begin to understand. If Irene learns these women’s names, the dishonor will be enough to challenge each of them to a death duel. She’s asking me to serve the women up on a silver platter so she can kill them.
Irene’s friends close in until they’re shoulder to shoulder with her. Their saber hilts glint from their scabbards, daring me to refuse.
My options are clear, opening like roads before me. If I refuse, I’m dead. If I agree, I might as well be. All the roads lead to the same place: a cage wrapped in the illusion of safety, waiting for me to lock myself inside. Harrison faced the same choice. So did hundreds of other low-citizens before me. Harrison was right when he said that this shit sells itself. We bend to the Blues to survive, even if it means breaking ourselves.
I see that now, and I accept it.
But that Blue will never be Irene.
“No,” I say.
“You would dare defy a high-citizen?” Irene draws closer, her shadow swallowing me whole. “You might think you have protection, Miss Waldsten, but there’s no one left to offer it.”
The words settle in my mind like a cold, heavy weight. One of the women standing behind Irene smiles, as if she knows something I don’t.
My hand closes around Winston Glass’s gift, still fixed to my chest. The device failed to protect me from the Coppers before, so I know there’s no point hoping it’ll save me now. Coming here was a coin flip with no winning side. But I can’t crawl into Irene’s pocket to buy time. If I do, she’ll own me like one of her trophies. Sooner or later, she’ll push for more, maybe even demand that I publicly denounce Dad or the Bliss ban, and I’ll have no power to refuse. I’ll be her hostage, her low-citizen lapdog. And when Dad finds out, he’ll never forgive me.
“Not the high-citizens,” I say. “Justyou.”
The words barely leave my mouth when Irene’s friends lunge. ThePinkies spring into action, sleek pistols snapping from their wrists. The robots form a wall in front of me, a last line of defense. The Blues move with blurring speed, locking onto the Pinkies before they can fire a single shot. Sparks fly as mechanical limbs are ripped from joints and hurled across the room. The robots’ graphene alloy torsos crumple under the assault. Smoke hisses from the wreckage, and the air is choked with the stench of scorched circuits.
Irene leaps over the wreckage, closing the gap between us. With a brutal, fluid motion, she brings the stock of her rifle to her shoulder and slides back the bolt, chambering a round. Then she locks onto me, her cheek pressed against the stock as she sights down the barrel. A slow exhale escapes her lips, and she disengages the safety.
