Chapter 18
Ver

The lens of the human eye bends light rays together, forming an image on the retina that the brain can process. The lenses in my eyes have been slightly squashed out of shape because of my disease. Tonight, as I stare at the eyesore someone left on my door, I wish RCD had attacked only my visual system, so I would not see this.

THREE-ER WHORE. Jagged, uneven letters, scrawled in carbon paint.

Gou, which of my neighbors could have done this? I have barely spoken to any of them, because I am no good at the chitchat that is popular on this moon. So no one knows me well enough to know that I am not a murderer who seduces her investigator victims. Is that what they think I learned on Three?

It is not just the police who think I killed Cal. It is everyone. Everyone except, perhaps, Aryl Fielding.

For a moment, I consider going to the second-year dorms. To Aryl. I remember how her strong wrist felt in my hand, the sensation of safety I experienced when she stepped between me and Jaha.

Aryl is gorgeous. A lot of girls on Three were too. I have always liked looking at them. But in Honey Crater, gay women are pariahs. They are equal under the law, just like everywhere else in the Pangu System. But people glare at them in the tram station and the market. Gang leaders and factory owners, nearly all of whom are men, give these women the worst jobs without saying why. And they tend to show up dead before their time. I have never let myself look too long at another girl.

Stop it, stop it. Aryl is the other suspect! I must control myself. Just like I did with Cal.

I enter my room. The cursed door clicks shut behind me. I slump against it.

“Charles?” I say.

No answer. Aiyo, no wonder. My voice came out at perhaps ten decibels—too low an amplitude to set off his verbal processing software.

“Charles,” I try again, louder this time.

“Hello,” he greets me.

My heart jumps into my throat. “Who did this to my door?”

“You are aware that I lack cameras facing the hallway, in order to protect your neighbors’ privacy.”

So unhelpful! I smack the padded wall with my cane and gently lower myself until I am seated cross-legged on the floor. I pick up the palm-sized notebook I sometimes use to do lab calculations by hand. The reusable green paper pages are coated with an acrylic that allows ink to be wiped off.

TTX injection, I write on one page. Left side of the neck, dorsal.I rip out the page and use a magnet to put it on the wall.

Aryl got to Cal before I did and gave CPR, I write on the next page. Aryl is right-handed.

Aryl did not like Cal, but she seems to understand why I loved him. The more I talk to her, the less she seems like a killer. She was framed, like me. But by whom?

Next suspect. Jaha is replacing Cal as investigator. I think back to the apartment, to the setup of the room where Jaha sat facing Pauling Yuan. She signed the funding paperwork with her left hand.

Jaha is left-handed! But Jaha was not in lab the night Cal died. Or was she? The police could have missed something, or lied to us about what they found on the security feed from BioLabs. But I cannot access those files with the resources I have. I will have to find another way to keep digging into this woman, sneaky as she is, like dark matter.

Who else has a motive? Other investigators, jealous of Cal’s talents? But each lab focuses on a different research area. There is very little direct competition within the Institute, and splashy collaborations are frequent. I can rule out Cal’s colleagues and his sponsor, Yuan. Cal might have been burning through funding more quickly than he should have, but someone who already has everything would gain nothing from killing his old friend. Not to mention that he is funding Cal’s autopsy.

That leads me to Cal himself. Cal is—I cross out the error: was right-handed. Had too many responsibilities and too much pressure.

My hand trembles as I write. If Cal did this to himself, I will feel worse than if it was a murder. It would mean I failed to save him from himself.

Guilt kicks me in the chest, even though I know that is not how suicide works. No amount of love, money, or achievement can help someone when their thoughts are spiraling and their brain chemistry is altered. I have seen it on Three, where Ma’s depressed factory coworkers fell like timber, unable to access medication or psychologists who could help. When I was younger, Ma would wring her hands, wonder how she might have helped them. But more recently, all she has said was, And so it goes.

No, no. Suicide does not fit this situation. When we were in lab together, Cal’s eyes would light up blue like the hottest, brightest stars in the galaxy. When he talked about his life, it was with love.

I cannot stop looking for what really happened to him. Even if it takes me the rest of my short life.