False Hearts by Laura Lam Page A

shrugs a shoulder, the movement seamless and elegant. “Sometimes. Not that often. I have to actually like the person. Want to spend more time with them. Most of the time, I’m happy enough just to stay in the bar and chat and laugh with them. It’s a good job. Was a good job.”
    She falters, and her mask slips. There’s the vulnerable side of my sister. The side that only I see. Then it flits back up, and she’s back to figuring out how she can wrap him around her finger. With a dip of my stomach, I realize I’ve seen her use that expression on me, too.
    Here, in the brainload, I finally let myself think what I’ve avoided thinking for some time now: has she used me too? But at the same time, I wonder if it’s like back in the Hearth. Where my own mind couldn’t be trusted, and Tila had to spend weeks convincing me that we needed to escape. I shy away from that, unable just now to cope with the guilt of how I once believed in Mana-ma unfalteringly.
    “And was your night with Vuk an overnight stay?”
    She shakes her head. “No. He liked Leylani for that. I was only a hostess to him.” Her eyes slide to the side, and I know she’s keeping something back.
    “Right. We need a list of all the people you work with, and what they look like. Your file says you’re an artist, so perhaps you can draw them?” Oloyu clears his throat.
    My sister narrows her eyes. “Is this for Taema?”
    Oloyu hesitates, as if he’s not sure if he should answer. “This is to help with the investigation.”
    She fidgets. “And I have to do it?”
    What is she thinking? It used to be I’d always know. She’s hesitating, not jumping to help until she knows all sides, works out her advantage. Altruism is not a trait my sister inherited. Not even for me.
    When I’m awake, I don’t think such nasty thoughts about her. Why am I so cruel when my body is unconscious?
    “You agreed you would,” Oloyu continues.
    Her mouth twists, but she takes the proffered drawing paper and pencil. She pauses before she draws, tapping the pencil against the table. Why haven’t they given her a tablet? Finally, she brings the pencil to paper.
    It fast-forwards her drawing, but I stare at her furrowed brow and the way her hair obscures half her face. How many times have I watched her draw?
    When she finishes, she holds up the paper. I drift closer, examining the names and the faces. Even sketched in haste, her drawings are beautiful. Dispassionately, Tila gives each name, a short description, and a few key personal details about each person. I feel the information sink into the deep recesses of my brain. As soon as I see these faces in the real world, I’ll recognize them.
    Officer Oloyu asks her to then sketch and describe the most common clients to frequent the club, especially those she’s worked with most often.
    At this she finally starts to look concerned. She hides it well enough. But not from me. “This is for Taema. You’re putting her undercover, aren’t you?”
    “I’m not at liberty to say.”
    “When you first took me in, you told me you were putting her in protective custody. You can’t do this. Going undercover is too dangerous for her.”
    I can’t help but bristle. She thinks I’m soft.
    Oloyu’s mouth twists. “Why? Because of what you’ve done as part of the Ratel?”
    She scoffs. “Nice try. No confessions.”
    “We already know irrefutably you worked with them. There’s no need to be coy. So why isn’t your sister allowed to go undercover?”
    “So she is undercover.” Her eyes are bright with triumph.
    Oloyu’s mouth twists as he bites down a curse.
    “Gotcha.” Tila smirks and bends over the paper. Again, the strange fast-forwarding as she draws, me unable to turn my “eyes” away from the quick movements of her fingers holding the pencil. Again, the sketches of men and women appear, their names, their habits, their dreams and desires find a place deep within my mind. I won’t forget any of them, even