There was no way to answer without going into how the Lindqvists had corrupted our cousin. How Sebastian had been part of it, and how I was keeping his secrets.
Never hide things from the family.
“The Lindqvists are riled up about it,” Arabella said. “The Old Campus still means something to them.”
“It was Peter,” I said.
“Peter? Two months after he fell?”
“Yes.”
“Whatever,” Arabella sighed, and handed me the tracker phone. “This is your first time getting close to someone. Don’t lose yourself.”
I managed not to laugh. “You think I’ll fall for her.”
“I think you haven’t been out much.” She held up a hand to halt my protest. “Remember this, little prodigy: Whatever you’re feeling for Hiromi, it’s not about her. Those sparks in your brain aren’t because of who she is, butwhatshe is.”
“And what’s that, auntie?”
“Prey,” she said.
Hiromi’s dot cameto a halt on a side street in Chinatown.
I recognized the location from her socials—a weekly event called the Swap. She went there most Saturdays to trade spare parts with other robot makers.
What were the odds, I wondered, of bumping into your only friend in New York, miles away from where either of you lived. A thousand to one? Ten thousand?
Fortunately, ordinaries love to believe in fate.
The man following Hiromi wasn’t anywhere nearby. He’d trailed her to her destination, then gone back to his life. What Lyon demanded wasn’t constant surveillance, but the sense of possession that came from having her observed.
I straightened myself and turned the corner.
The street was lined with storefronts. Fish in wooden boxes outside, ice and scales glinting in the sun, a wavering claw reaching over the side of a crate. An herbal remedy shop, its shelves lined with jars, spilled out the scents of tea, mulch, and barn.
Hiromi’s blue dot was at the far end, inside a one-story brick building with an open roller door. The floor was concrete; shelves climbed the walls. People milled around folding tables strewn with scrap metal, mechanical parts, colored plastic. A rattling ceiling fan swirled the summer air.
“Jessica?” came a voice from the gloom.
My eyes adjusted.
“Hiromi?” I said. “What the hell?”
“Amazing!” She wrapped me in a hug, enfolding me in a gentle heat, the smell of grease, sweat, and something sweet. With her body pressed against mine, I felt that flutter again. Hiromi was a means to an end. A key to a door.
Prey.
“Sorry I’m so sweaty,” she said. “Summer in New York!”
“I’m a mess too. I’ve been exploring.”
“You look like yourself again.” Hiromi nodded at a woman who stood at the nearest table. “You remember Crystal.”
“I do.” The friend with pink hair, who had informed me about metaphors. “Hello, Crystal.”
“Jessica of the fancy drinks.” She was a few inches taller than me, a full head taller than Hiromi. “What brings you to the Swap?”
“What’s a Swap?”