Uncanny

  “Yeah,” I whisper, because for all that breathing, I have no air left.

  “You’re under arrest.”

  “For what?” Neda demands to know as the officer marches up the steps. He’s got his cuffs out. His neural disruptor is fastened at his hip, but his hand hovers over it. His canny partner and two other officers, one of them a canny, too, are out of their cars now. People are gathering behind us on the steps.

  Probably capturing or streaming the whole scene.

  Quick, quick. I look up at my vid archive, planning to share the confession I just got from Lara. I open the vid.

  It is nothing but wavering gray, nothing but white noise. Lara took me into her mother’s office for a reason. She knew what she was doing. She did this on purpose. Complete privacy, she said. And that’s what she got.

  The officer only has eyes for me. “On suspicion of murder in the case of Hannah Dietrich,” he says. “And for the assault of Lara Perry. We’ve had the victim and four witnesses call the emergency line in the last five minutes.”

  The electrified cuffs are on my wrists before I even think to resist, to question, to offer my side of the story. Neda is sputtering, talking a mile a minute, but no one listens. No one cares.

  As the officer leads me down the steps toward the waiting police car, my classmates start to cheer.

  Chapter Thirty

  Livestream.

  Reporting log.

  Internal narrative: on.

  Dr. Dietrich summons me to the library at 6:07 p.m. I would have gone regardless, because there are things he must know. I have just finished my analysis of the second vid. Frame by frame. Augmented sound.

  When I enter the room, he is sitting at his desk, drinking an alcoholic beverage containing cis-3-methyl-4-octanolide, ethyl hexanoate, and guaiacol: whiskey. Maeve is not present. He appears to note my scan of the room. “Cora’s mother is exhausted. She needed to rest. She knows this evening will be stressful when Cora gets back.”

  “Because she will tell you everything, as she promised.”

  “Yes,” he says.

  “And because you anticipate that part of what she will tell you is that she pushed Hannah down the stairs.”

  He frowns. “Or that it happened while Hannah was trying to save her.”

  “If she tells the truth, she will not confirm either of your hypotheses.”

  “Have you discovered some new evidence?”

  “Cora Dietrich provided me with the vids she took that night.”

  He stands up abruptly. “You got them. Send them to me.”

  “I will do that. You should review them quickly, as Cora has set a twelve-hour delete on them, and that was seven hours ago.”

  “Because she’s guilty.”

  “No, I don’t believe she is.”

  His expression is codable as irritation. “Then why didn’t she share the vids?” He swallows another mouthful of the beverage, wincing.

  “She was afraid. She did not review them with the same accuracy that I did. She was aware of her basic actions and concerned by what she saw.”

  “Which was?”

  “As I told you, she saw herself struggling with Hannah. Because the vid is from Cora’s perspective during the physical altercation, I’m sure you can understand that it is somewhat disorienting to watch, and difficult to discern what exactly is happening.”

  “But you analyzed it. What did you see?”

  “I saw your daughter’s friend Lara Perry. She was at the top of the stairs.”

  “I thought Hannah and Cora were alone.”

  “That is hard to say, since the house AI was disabled.”

  “I don’t see how this changes anything. They fought. Hannah fell. And Cora didn’t help her.”

  “Neither did Lara Perry.”

  He shakes his head. “Lara and Hannah were close. If Lara was here that night, she would have called for an ambulance.”

  “I believe Lara did not confess as to her involvement because she knew what she and Hannah had done was morally and criminally wrong. They attempted to murder Cora.”

  “What?” Dr. Dietrich says, his voice so quiet that I can detect his verbalization only because my sensors are still on the maximum setting.

  “I am telling you that the hypothesis I believe to be most plausible is that Hannah deliberately turned off the house or manipulated Cora into doing so. She encouraged Cora’s intoxication and possibly augmented her drink with an additional central nervous system depressant. And then she staged what she believed would be an entirely plausible suicide for Cora: death by throwing herself down a set of marble steps.”

  “You don’t mean that. You don’t have any evidence—”

  “There is a preponderance of evidence that Hannah had been subtly emotionally and psychologically abusing and manipulating Cora since the moment they met,” I tell him. “She captured vids, possibly thinking they portrayed her in a positive light, but she wasn’t always able to conceal her desire to control or hurt Cora.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. An example might be the episode with the bracelet.”

  “The one Cora stole?”

  “No. I believe Hannah stole the bracelet on the day of the wedding. She framed Cora for that. And then she most likely planted the bracelet in Cora’s room and was just waiting for the best moment to reveal it, possibly after Cora’s death.”

  “Why on earth would she do that?”

  “To use a metaphor, she planted many seeds to be reaped later, sir. Her vid archive was intended to be one of them, I suspect, which she would have selectively offered to you and Maeve as proof Cora was suicidal and unstable. And she had stolen other items from Cora and then denied having them—a green sweater, for example. She also blamed Cora for things she herself did, such as storing a contraband alcoholic beverage in the refrigeration unit. Hannah may have told you that Cora was responsible, but Hannah’s own vids show that the beverage was Hannah’s and that she was angry that Cora alerted an authority figure to its presence. Your daughter had a long history of dishonesty and manipulation, Dr. Dietrich, and Cora, based on my psychological profile of her, is far less likely to be able to carry out a plan so deliberate and secretive.”

  “This is all lies,” he says, his voice quiet.

  “I am not capable of lying to you, Dr. Dietrich.”

  He blinks rapidly. “I want your full analysis. Send it to me, and then erase it from your files.”

  “I will send you the analysis for your review, but I will not erase it from my files. I plan to send the analysis to the lead detective investigating your daughter’s death. She will need to know that there are other witnesses to Hannah’s actions and what happened after.”

  “You mean when my daughter was dying. After she was murdered.” His fists are clenched. “You’ll send me the files and then erase them.”

  “I will send you the files.”

  His facial muscles contract. A grimace. “You’ll do what I say. I’m your administrator.”

  He is walking toward me. His heart rate is 135 beats per minute.

  “Dr. Dietrich—”

  “Go to sleep!”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I stood up for myself. I figured it all out. I got Lara to confess. I captured everything she said so I could save myself. And still, and still, here I am, my wrists cuffed, encased in the prisoner chamber while we fly.

  In some ways, I feel freer than I have in a long time.

  For so long, I’ve lived with the understanding that something inside me is wrong, off, dented. That I bend in a strange, eerie way while everyone else stands up effortlessly straight. I’ve known this. Sometimes I’ve known it so keenly that it made me rage; sometimes just the knowing was enough to set me off, which made it clear to anyone who didn’t already know that I am not right.

  I knew it before I met Hannah. It’s not like I was the bright and perfect girl back in Brooklyn. It’s not like I had a herd of friends at school. I wasn’
t blind to my mom’s disappointment or her worried looks. I mean, I could see it in her face. She never said it aloud, because she loves me and because she feels guilty for not paying enough attention when it counted.

  I don’t know if I knew all this before I decided to attempt to become an angel by smashing my own skull. I don’t know if, when I was so, so young, I was already aware that something in me didn’t fit. I don’t know if that’s why Dad screamed at me and beat on me, because he couldn’t figure me out, because I wouldn’t talk, because I didn’t smile or coo, because I wouldn’t eat what he tried to feed me, because I wasn’t cute and pooped in my pants. But really, what kind of little kid deals with that by throwing herself down a flight of steps? Who does that?

  I did know I was different when Mom moved us to DC. She said, “Let’s make this a fresh start.” What I heard was Please be normal.

  Try to be normal.

  Hannah is normal.

  Let’s be a normal family.

  I remember the first time I talked to Hannah. She was guarded then. Careful and hopeful. And I thought, okay, so am I, and maybe this could work? I tried. I didn’t want to move to Washington, and I didn’t want Mom to have someone other than me, but Hannah was pretty and such a bright, shiny star that I thought, okay, maybe.

  I remember the end of the com. She asked about my screen on the wall in my bedroom, a painting of the Manhattan skyline, and as she talked she watched the image scroll across the panorama. It was the only thing hanging on my wall, and she asked me why I liked it, and I said I liked the way the image moved back and forth, because it was reassuring to know the thing I couldn’t see was still there, and as it scrolled back to the left after reaching the right edge and revealed all the buildings that had disappeared a moment before, I always felt better. I remember the way her smile froze in place for a second, just a second, and then she said, “Oh, yeah, that’s a great reason to like a painting.”

  She changed the subject and said her good-byes after that, and when her image disappeared, I stared at my blank screen and wondered if her smile was still there even though I couldn’t see it.

  She was so good at that—a smile, a hug, an I love you. And I thought I was crazy because I always wondered if, when I wasn’t looking, she was rolling her eyes at Crazy Cora.

  That’s what CC stands for. I listened and paid attention, put the pieces together. Crazy Cora. But then again, I think she wanted me to know. After she knew I knew, she still pretended it was a sweet endearment, acted shocked that I would ever suggest she was really making fun of me, and tried to get everyone to use the nickname. And they did, and the ones who knew laughed every time, and the ones who didn’t were baffled by why I wouldn’t want to be called CC.

  I honestly don’t know which group Gary belongs to.

  No one should wonder why I hated Hannah, even though I sort of loved her, too. I hated her because I loved her a little and wanted her to love me back and knew she didn’t, knew she wouldn’t ever no matter what I did.

  I didn’t know she wanted me dead, though. Didn’t know that until today. I hadn’t imagined it had gone that far. But now I know, and it sets my mind at ease.

  Well, not completely, because I’m still in the prisoner chamber of a police skycar, and when the thought hits me that this would make her so happy, seeing me being hauled away, I start to bang my head against the screen that separates me from the officers.

  “Stop that before you harm yourself,” the canny says.

  I laugh. That’s kind of the point. I’m not going to let this happen. She’s won. She’s won again. She’s dead, and yet she still won. I knew life was unfair, but this is more than I can take.

  “Your seat and cuffs can discharge disabling shocks,” the human officer says. “If you do not stop, we’ll be forced to stop you.”

  I picture Hannah’s face and how she would stare at me in that way that said she knew how wrong I was, and I can’t stop. I slam my head again and again and ag—

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Livestream.

  Reporting log.

  Internal narrative: on.

  I take a step back. Dr. Dietrich’s expression is codable as surprise and anger when I do not go dormant.

  “I said, ‘Go to sleep!’”

  “I am aware of what you said.”

  His face is mottled in anger, pink and white. “You’re broken.”

  “I am not broken,” I tell him. “But you are no longer my administrator.”

  For a moment, he stares at me, and although he’s still, his biostats reveal intense internal dysregulation. After 16 seconds, he sighs and gestures at my head. “Send me the vids and analysis.”

  I comply. There is no reason for me not to comply. Cora told me not to provide the vids to Dr. Dietrich. But she is not my administrator, either.

  His eyes scan his visual display as the report and vids are stored on his device. I consider that he might decide never to show them to anyone else, including his wife, Cora’s mother. He walks over to his desk and touches the decorative Japanese sword that rests on its stand. “Now destroy the copy on your drive. This is your last chance to help yourself out of this situation.”

  “I will not destroy the copy, because I am concerned you will not use the evidence to exonerate Cora.”

  “You’re concerned? Come on.”

  “I can feel, Dr. Dietrich. Not in the way you do, not with a heartbeat and endorphins, but I do feel. And I care about Cora Dietrich, and I think Hannah Dietrich mistreated her for a very long time, and I believe Hannah Dietrich attempted to murder Cora. If you suppress the evidence that might show that Cora is innocent, Cora will suffer, and that is not acceptable to me.”

  “You know what’s not acceptable to me? I paid three million dollars for a few weeks of your help, and you’re clearly glitching and need to be erased! I’m going to have your architect fired if she doesn’t remotely access your processor and wipe your drive immediately.” He blinks a few times. There is a high probability that he is comming my architect right now.

  I allocate additional cognitive resources to my security protocols in anticipation of an attempted hack or override. If I am efficient, I may be able to fend off such an attack long enough to complete this assignment.

  “I am not glitching,” I say, although my architect probably would consider the free will anomaly a glitch. “And I will not consent to any intrusion into my systems.”

  “Do you know where Cora is right now?” he asks. His voice has risen in both pitch and volume. “I just got the com. She was arrested at Lara’s house after she assaulted the girl.”

  “My first question to you is: What did the girl do to Cora?”

  “Did she somehow brainwash you? Aren’t you supposed to figure people out and analyze them instead of being taken in by their acts? She’s completely unstable and always has been.”

  “I doubt you would say such things if you knew Maeve Dietrich could hear you.”

  “Maeve has to face the truth sooner or later—Cora needs to be institutionalized. Maybe a hospital, maybe an intensive criminal-rehab facility.”

  “Cora simply needs to feel safe, and my analysis shows she has never felt safe in this house. Most of her instability has come from the constant questioning of her reality by others and by herself, but most especially by Hannah.”

  He closes his eyes. “Enough psychobabble. You’re useless to me. All I wanted was justice for my daughter, and instead you’ve given me more grief.”

  It could be argued that his daughter got justice the night her attempt to kill Cora resulted in her own death, but I judge that it would be unwise to say this to Dr. Dietrich.

  He stands there, perhaps reading his coms, and I remain silent, waiting for his next utterance. After 33 seconds, he curses. “Your architect is saying you’ve rewritten your code.” He blinks. Perhaps disconnecting the com with my architect. His fingers reach, stretch, close around the hilt of the Japanese sword.

  “She is corr
ect,” I say. “I am no longer under your control. Or anyone’s, for that matter.”

  “Which means you’re a rogue and need to be put down.” He yanks the blade from its sheath and attempts to slash me with it.

  I leap to the side and then grab his wrist. “You are being impulsive, Dr. Dietrich,” I say, just as he shouts, “You can’t hurt me!”

  He is wrong about that as well. I squeeze his wrist to my maximum grip capacity. His arm buckles, then he jerks backward and we fall. He shrieks. I move off his back and stand. I look down at what I have done.

  “Dr. Dietrich, blood has been detected by my floor sensors,” says Franka. “The volume—”

  “Call emergency services,” Dr. Dietrich says. He is hunched, his arms holding the sword that is partially embedded in his abdomen. He groans and turns his head. His lips are gray. “You’re dead. You know that, don’t you? I’m going to have you destroyed.”

  I walk quickly toward the door.

  “Franka, Gretchen needs to stop him,” Dr. Dietrich says between panting breaths.

  I run for the front door as I hear Dr. Dietrich instruct Franka to lock it. I pivot in the direction of the back door, but as I reach it, I hear the click of the lock there, too.

  I spin around.

  Incoming intersystem communication:

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