“Let me think for a minute.” Kaitlyn stands and then—the office suddenly feeling too hot, too crowded with their two bodies—steps outside.
Surely Robert Frost didn’t have anything like this in mind when he talked about those two roads diverging in a yellow wood, but still, this is how Kaitlyn feels: like she’s looking down two different paths, wondering which one will lead to any semblance of peace. Pointing her gun at that amorphous human silhouette at the shooting range is nothing like pointing a gun at a living, breathing person; she knows that.
And she knows that, even if she were to find herself poised and ready (and even if her gun were not currently missing), she would never be able to pull the trigger. She is angry in a way that feels unshakable,a permanent part of her personality from here on out, but she isn’t a murderer.
Perhaps ShrinkGPT can help. After pulling out her phone and opening the app, Kaitlyn asks, “How do you know if you’re capable of killing?”
The app plays “Opus No. 1” as the chatbot generates its response. But when the answer is finally provided—something about patterns of deception and an escalation of violence—Kaitlyn notices right away that something is off. This isn’t the AI voice she is used to, the soothing baritone reminiscent of Morgan Freeman. This is another voice entirely.
The app confirms it: Though a half dozen new voice options have been added following the latest software update, the voice she’s become so accustomed to hearing—Male Dulcet Tone—is gone.
Great. Even her fucking AI-therapy chatbot has left her. She has no choice but to figure this out on her own.
For what feels like the hundredth time in the past few months, Kaitlyn wonders,What would Amanda do?If she closes her eyes, she can almost hear her sister’s voice, can almost feel her standing beside her.
Talia needs to get fucked,Amanda would say.Talia needs to pay.
Before she can change her mind again, Kaitlyn calls the police. “This is Kaitlyn Reade,” she says, her voice shaking, “and I have evidence that Talia Danvers killed my sister.”
Someone asks her to hold, and a moment later, a voice she recognizes as belonging to Detective Harris answers the phone. “Ms. Reade?”
“I have evidence,” she repeats. “I know Talia did it.”
Harris pauses. “Would you come back to the station?” she says at last. “Talia Danvers was just shot.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Talia
It takes a few minutes, but eventually, the hospital room comes into focus around her, and Talia realizes why she cannot move her arms: She is handcuffed to the bed.
Carefully, she tests the limits of her cuffs, tugging her left arm, and then her right. Pain radiates from her wrists, rubbed raw from friction, but it doesn’t eclipse the throbbing of her left shin.You need something to drink,her brain informs her.You need something to drink, and you need to stay calm.
“Water,” she cries out for a second time. “I need water.”
The uniformed officer standing outside her door doesn’t turn to look at her—and in fact, he starts to walk away.
“Come back.” Talia’s throat throbs with the effort of yelling, her command coming out as little more than a squeak.
Her heart sinks when the officer rounds the corner, leaving her sight, but just as quickly, he returns with a nurse in tow. Wordlessly, the two enter the room.
“Could I get some water, please?” she tries again.
The nurse doesn’t respond, avoiding Talia’s eyes as she switches out her IV bag.
“Are you able to take off these cuffs? They’re really uncomfortable.”
Still no response. Talia turns to the officer—a lanky, curly-haired guy who looks no older than twenty—standing solemnly in the corner of the room.
“There’s no reason for me to be restrained. I didn’t do anything.”
The officer’s eyes meet hers for just a moment before he snaps his focus out the window again.
The nurse peels back the dressing wrapped around her shin, and for the first time, Talia sees the bullet hole, gaping and oozing like something from a horror movie. Without warning, two gloved thumbs press into the wound, and Talia rears back, nearly blacking out from the pain.
“Ow!”
“Sorry,” the nurse says, not sounding sorry at all.
