Tracked by Jenny Martin

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    â€œ. . . Most officials have released similar statements, but once again, Chamber minority leader Toby Abasi opposes the current administration . . .”
    Onscreen, Abasi is lean but haggard, and I swear his sun-spotted face is as creased and dark as the cloth we use to spit-shine a rig. He looks nothing like the smooth-talking corporate clones who normally dominate the feeds.
    â€œ. . . We should not authorize the deployment of any more troops, least of all Benroyal’s mercenaries. It is one thing to defend our interests, but it’s completely another to hijack control of Bisera, another allied nation. What hard evidence do we have that the Cyanese are actually behind these ‘terrorist’ attacks? Why aren’t we policing the problems on our—”
    A flex message flashes over the walls, swallowing Abasi’s final words. It’s Cash.
    CD: ARE YOU HURT? HANK TOLD ME WHAT HAPPENED.
    I grab my card and delete the message off the walls, keeping our conversation contained on the tiny screen in my hands. Before I can reply, he texts again.
    CD: YOU OKAY?
    PV: FINE.
    CD: ARE YOU SURE?
    PV: CAN’T SLEEP. NO FRESH AIR.
    CD: I HAVE FRESH AIR.
    PV: ???
    CD: BALCONY. TELESCOPE TOO.
    PV: HOW COME YOU GET A BALCONY AND I DON’T??!!
    CD: COME OVER.
    I don’t answer for a long time. I could use a breather, but dealing with Cash again . . . I don’t know. I look down at Bear. He’s fast asleep, relaxed and dreaming at last. I could slip out and get back before he woke—he wouldn’t even miss me.
    CD: ???
    PV: YES.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    Feeling more than a little guilty, I slink out and pad barefoot across the lobby. Cash opens his door before I have the chance to knock. Benroyal’s interior decorators aren’t very subtle. While my apartment is awash in white, Cash’s place is a dozen shades of black and gray.
    His bed-head and insomniac stare tell me I’m not the only one who’s been tossing and turning. Tonight, I don’t see a prince or an arrogant rogue. Just a sleepy-eyed boy.
    â€œHeya,” he says, lowering his voice and leaning in.
    I start to ask him why he’s whispering, but then I remember the possibility of surveillance. The thought of cameras makes my skin crawl. I stay close enough to keep our conversation quiet. “Benroyal’s wife. What do you know about her?”
    He shuts the door. “Well . . . I know she’s messed up in the head. And that she’s James’s sister.”
    That first detail is obvious. The second is a jaw-dropper. “Really?”
    â€œShe’s James’s twin.” He shrugs. “She and Benroyal? Childhood sweethearts.”
    I raise an eyebrow. “There’s nothing ‘sweet’ about Benroyal. You’re telling me he actually—”
    â€œOh, he loves her all right.” Cash leans against the doorjamb, sidling up. “He’s completely smitten. With her beautiful brown eyes. Her vast fortune. Her half-mad, easily influenced mind . . .”
    â€œWait, I thought—”
    â€œShe and James both own Locus Informatics.”
    I sigh, but it comes out more like a growl. Of course. James and his brother-in-law, working together. I’ve been totally played. “My father drove for Locus. What a complete coincidence—Locus manages the courts and Benroyal shows up, right after my hearing.”
    My pacer is quietly laughing at me. “I hate to break it to you, Vanguard, but it’s King Charlie’s universe, and we just live in it.”
    I pull out my flex and image-search James and his sister. Oddly, there aren’t too many of her. Just a few publicity shots of her on Benroyal’s arm, smiling at circuit galas and PR events. Even in the grainy stills, you can see there’s something missing. The vacant look in her eyes. I can almost fill in the gaps, imagining the way she might