I suspect neither of my siblings knows Nonna gets those emails. Otherwise they’d leave out all the details of when they sneak out of the house for parties and various romantic meetups. Knowing Nonna, she is greatly amused.
I don’t dare log in to my own email account. The Identity Security Division would see that. But using various coffee shops to hack into Nonna’s account isjustanonymous enough to fly under the radar. She isn’t technically bound to me by blood or paperwork. Nonna was my grandfather’s second love—and while they were together for thirty years, they never married.
This inbox is my one point of connection with my loved ones. The stray thread that links me to my old life. And I can’t bear to cut it.
I open the folder and see a bolded, new message at the top. My youngest sister emailed a week ago and Nonna has yet to read it.
I flick the email open.
Hey.
I took my driver’s test last week. Passed, even if I was shaking the whole time.
Wanted to make you proud.
I miss you.
I can almost hear my sister’s voice in every word. She was twelve when I last saw her, with a wide smile and a wicked sense of humor. We declared the attic sovereign territory and waged war on our older sister—who responded by stealing our bras and tossing them onto the roof.
When I think of home, that is what I remember best—me and my sisters, snarling at one another and loving in equal turns, full of fondness and resentment and small joys. We weren’t perfect, but the more time I spend away from them, the more I only remember the good things. Like sea glass—all the sharp edges are gone from my memories, leaving only soft beauty.
I click out of the email, marking it as unread so that Nonna won’t know anyone accessed it. Then I close the anonymous browser and flick my fingers so that my ringware goes to sleep. The screen blinks away, leaving behind only the coffee shop.
A tide of loneliness sweeps in, so cold and abrupt that my breath catches.
Looking into my family is like picking at a scab. I know it isn’t healthy in the long run. But I can’tnotdo it. Every few months, I find my fingers itchy with the urge to type in the familiar names. But I have to be careful—if I look too often, it’ll become suspicious.
As I sit, haunted by my sister’s words, I hear the guys at the next table talking. One of them is gesticulating with his empty cup. His voice rises in anger. “—Dumped me. After everything.”
“I know,” says the second college boy. “It sucks.”
“She was supposed to stay here,” says the first boy, frustration simmering in his voice, “after she graduated. She could’ve gone to vet school in Oregon. But no, there’s a better program in Montana. Who the hell goes to Montana?”
“You’ve still got pictures of her, right?” says the second boy, smirking.
The first boy, the dumpee, snorts. “Not those kind. Nettie wouldn’t send them.”
“Doesn’t matter.” The second boy gently taps his smart-ring against the table. “I’ve got a deepfake app. Trust me, if you’ve got a picture of her face you’ve got any video you want. You can make a burner account, post it, and tag her school. See if Montana wants her after that.”
The dumpee laughs.
“Here,” says the second boy, pulling the ringware from his finger and setting it on the table.
A cold tendril of anger curls around my stomach. I know exactly what videos two college-aged boys will make with a deepfake app. But while revenge porn is illegal, it isn’t my job to track down offenders. I should ignore them. I should go on my way. My whole life is made up of “shoulds.”
There are three things you need to know about me.
First, my name isn’t Augusta Pine.
Second, I am a criminal.
Third, I work for the Identity Security Division, so all my criminal activity is sanctioned.
Well. Most of it.
The first boy, the dumpee, has brown hair, high cheekbones, and a face that will buy him a lot of forgiveness. His sleeves are half rolled up to his forearms, revealing part of an elaborate tattoo. Lines of red and black swirl across his hand and forearm. It is one of the fancy custom jobs—probably keyed to some expensive car and Daddy’s bank account. Some people pay for private mods to their electron-ink identity tattoos. It’s expensive and time-consuming, but no one ever said that status symbols were logical.
My visor is capable of scanning electron-ink, so I can glance at a person’s tattoo and bring up their name, age, home address, and if they have any outstanding warrants. But I can’t get a good look at his hand, not without drawing attention, so I’ll have to get creative.
