It’s time to even those odds.
10
“Edgar,” I whisper. “Keep an eye on Bud. If he notices me, I want a heads-up.”
“Righto,” he replies, and flies toward the security office.
I slip from my hiding spot behind the plants and begin to crawl across the marble floor. It’s cool against my sweaty fingers. Without the air-conditioning, the August heat has begun to seep into the building.
Hannah Vale left the dead security guard where he fell. I scurry toward him, my jaw clenching. I’ve never liked dead things—not flowers, not roadkill, not the frogs we were supposed to dissect in eighth grade. I made my lab partner do it.
But this can’t be avoided.
I kneel beside the security guy. Matthew. His name is Matthew. I remember the flash of grief in Nonna’s face when she spoke of him. She’s a good judge of character, which means he was probably a decent man. His eyes are open and glassy, his lips slightly parted. Rigor mortis hasn’t set in yet, so he still looks uncomfortably alive.
I try not to look at his face. Instead I reach for his belt. It’s one of those industrial-heavy affairs carried by copsand private security guards. Clipped to it are a flashlight and—
“Bingo,” I hiss as I find a can of pepper spray and a baton. I’m not trained with guns or knives, but I can shoot a spray can and hit someone with a stick just fine. I take both. I turn to leave, but something makes me pause.
Matthew deserves better than to be scavenged and abandoned. Even if it’s irrational, I can’t just leave him here.
A dark hoodie is tied around his waist. It’s not a sheet, but I want to cover him with something. I carefully pry it free, then give it a shake to straighten out the fabric.
As I do, something falls out of the pocket and clinks to the floor.
I look down. A gold ring. He must have put it in his pocket and forgotten it there when he tied the sweatshirt above his belt.
Carefully, I pick it up. At first, I think it’s a wedding band. It has the clean lines of one. But the moment I touch it, I realize my mistake. This thing is far, far too heavy to be simple gold.
It’s ringware.
This is the difference between ringware and an electron-ink tattoo: Rings are designed to interface with one’s technology. They’re temporary and cheap—but the real price is that they’re far less secure. Electron-ink tattoos can only be deactivated upon death. They’re linked up with all the information a person holds most dear: social security, bank accounts, addresses. Matthew’s electron-ink tattoo vanished within a minute of his death—and with it, all of thepasswords and passkeys that someone might have taken from him.
But a fingerprint is all too easily stolen.
I flick the ring to activate it and reach for Matthew’s hand. When I slip the ring over his finger, it beeps softly. Awaiting a command. With a grimace, I twist Matthew’s fingers in a familiar gesture to open up new Bluetooth connections.
Instantly, a pop-up in my visor announces a new ring available. “Thank you, Matthew,” I breathe.
A few swipes of my fingers and I manage to change the ring’s security passcode to my own fingerprint.
The layout of the building spreads out before me. Blueprints layer over my vision—pipes hidden in the walls, a series of hallways, brilliant outlines of doors that require authorization.
This ringware is Matthew’s master key to the building. And now I have it.
“Thank you,” I whisper, touching his arm. “And I’m sorry.”
I half crawl, half shuffle toward the security office. Bud is still there, diligently typing.
The keyboard is the manual kind, and its loudclack-clack-clacking covers the sound of my approach.
I have spent enough time in this job to recognize dangerous people. Dangerous people—truly dangerous people—don’t cackle or twirl their metaphorical mustaches. Most of them don’t look or act differently than anyone else. But even so, they’re recognizable.
Have you ever met someone and felt a jolt in yourstomach like when you miss a step on a staircase? Or a prickle of awareness at the back of your neck? Have you ever felt like you were being watched? Odds are, you were in the presence of someone dangerous.
Humans are apex predators now, but our bodies retain those prey instincts.
Looking at Bud, I do not feel that awareness. He looks like an overconfident hacker.
