Soulprint by Megan Miranda Page B

monitoring each generation, and seeing what traits correlate from life to life. Science explains the correlations the same way it explains DNA markers. In the same way that some sequences in a DNA chain indicate an increased likelihood of developing certain multifactor diseases like Alzheimer’s, there’s no certainty. And here, they’re not even using hard facts—no markers in the soul fingerprint they extract in the spinal fluid itself. The “markers” they use as evidence are personality tests, self-surveys, or in the case of the famous study, specific types of criminal records tied to each soul. But there are only a few generations in the database, and it’s no secret that even these so-called markers are flawed. People could be committing crimes and not getting caught. People could be caught and not convicted. People could be framed. But it’s the best they can do. A human being isn’t quantifiable. So they study those markers from generation to generation to assess the correlation. Seems a lot less like science to me. Most of the results were reported during June’s lifetime.
    They already know the nature of my soul.
    The only thing they can get from that needle is knowledge they already have.
    Dominic flips a switch on the side of the rectangular box, and the liquid in the beaker begins to disappear, sucked inside the machine as it stutters to life. “It’s time to see exactly what you’re worth, Alina Chase.”

Chapter 9
    â€œNo.” I back up toward the door, but Dominic is blocking my way.
    Cameron turns around but doesn’t look at me. “She doesn’t want this.”
    Dominic comes closer and says, “Of course she wants this. She’s June. This isn’t to hurt you, Alina. It’s to access your money.”
    â€œWhat money?” I ask, even as the pieces are falling into place. I know what he’s trying to do, to see if June has left herself an inheritance. But to check funds, to
transfer
funds, you need to have this procedure done at a bank to prevent fraud.
    It’s rare, truth be told. Most everyone leaves their assets to their children, their spouses, their loved ones. It’s only the lonely people who do this. The people who have no one else. Something cold settles through my bones, and I hope that the account is empty.
    â€œWon’t it be frozen anyway?” I ask.
    â€œThat’s the beauty of privacy,” Dominic says. “It’s not tied to any names. Your soul fingerprint is the username and password. The banking system merely searches for the match. The money is just sitting there, waiting to be retrieved.” That way, either life can retrieve the cash. Nothing else may be passed along. No messages, no notes, no confessions or last words. Just a sum of cash. Nearly everyone checks it on their eighteenth birthday, because why not?
    But I’m not eighteen and I’m not in a bank, and if I were, surely I would be arrested before I could get the money, regardless.
    Surely June would’ve been arrested had she walked in to make a deposit.
    â€œThat’s it?” I ask. “You just want the money?” It’s a price to pay for my escape, I suppose. It’s not really mine, anyway. Honestly, I could use it. But I’m not June, and I don’t want her blood money.
    â€œNo,” he says. “But we’re going to
need
the money.”
    We’re on the run, after all. Money is necessary for survival. I understand this on some academic level, but I’ve never had it, and I’ve never needed it. But it must have cost them a considerable amount of money to pull off that escape.
    â€œI owe you money, though. Isn’t that right? How much do I owe you?” I ask.
    I want there to be a price—a price I can pay and be free. But nobody responds as I crawl onto the table and hike my shirt up to my ribs and pull my knees to my chest, like I’ve seen doneon