Page 31 of Ezra
But it’s also because I want to see her. And I’m not sure how I feel about that realization crawling up my circuitry. “You’re organizing a fundraiser for the victims?”
“It’s the least I can do, considering my family is the reason for this whole mess.” She stares out the window. It’s been raining and overcast for days, droplets scattered across every long window.
I’m already ordering her more food. She’s filling her stomach now, so I look for heartier alternatives in case her appetite returns with a vengeance. I’ve seen Jayne Rose eat a whole pizza and regret nothing. But pizza might upset her digestion tract in her current state, so I err on the side of caution with a rotisserie chicken, potatoes, and greens.
I’ve barely hit the confirmation command to send the order through when I swivel back to her. “What?”
She blinks at me. “What?”
“You’re not personally responsible for these attacks,” I say. “Is that why you aren’t eating?”
“I guess so,” she says. “I feel responsible. If I’d been more careful with my social media, it wouldn’t have happened. This is my responsibility.”
My biocomponent temperature regulator engages. A notification sweeps across my screen. I dismiss it. While I value accountability—it’s something many humans lack—I don’t feel it’s right to encourage her to embrace the blame for this. “It’s not your fault, Miss Carson.”
“It is.”
“It’s not,” I repeat, my tone curt. “Others killed those people. Not your father. Not you.”
“I don’t know that others will see it that way,” she admits, peering down at her smoothie. “I’m a little surprised, if I’m honest. That you’re defending me.”
She has a point. Many on the pro-bionic side of the spectrum might tell me I should be gratified by this exchange. Her perception is mostly self-inflicted, but maybe now she’s had a taste of what it’s like to be me. While she seems a more balanced individual in her opinions, her entire socio-political platform blames people’s suffering on my existence, even when I’ve had no say or choice in my making.
She’ll be a misplaced target. An outlet for people’s anger. I know what that feels like.
“I don’t delight in suffering,” I answer. “Not even yours. And it’s admirable.”
“Admirable?” Katrina asks, puzzled.
“That you’re working yourself so hard for the benefit of others, even when you’re afraid.”
Kat sighs. “It’s that obvious, is it?”
“I think fear is the normal response for anyone in your position. But you’re still here.”
“Barely. Believe me, I want to run. All I could think about was boarding a plane to France after yesterday and never looking back.”
I’m curious why France specifically, but it’s not my business. “Flight is a normal human response. Thoughts are nothing to be ashamed of.”
Katrina gazes at me a long moment. “You’re different than I expected.”
“So are you.” Mentally, I have no doubt this woman has been working herself to the point of exhaustion. I recall how Rashelle reins Deion in after a long day of work. “You’ve done enough today. You should do what you can to decompress.”
“You know, I’m technically supposed to orderyouaround,” she teases, the hint of a smirk tugging her lips. “If I told you to stop working, that you’ve done enough, you’d say...”
“No,” I reply flatly.
“All right, then.” Katrina’s tone is almost lighthearted, like she’s really trying to cast off all the burdens on her shoulders. “I’m going to take a break and shower now. Not because you suggested it, but because I want to. They just happen to coincide.”
Playfulness. She seems to take note of it as well, this strange energy between us. Not hatred or disgust, but respect. Almost bordering on friendly. “Whatever you say, Miss Carson.”
Her phone rings, and she sighs. “After I take this call.” She hits accept. “Ramsey? Hey! Yes, go ahead and upload those posts to Dad’s account. Let me know if you get any weird messages. We’ll need to forward them to the precinct.”
Once she’s in the bathroom and the water is running, I want to resume work, but I’ve run out of case notes to review, and I can’t return to either crime scene to continue forensic work. To stave off my boredom, I put away the food I ordered for Katrina.
A blood-curling scream sounds from the bathroom, and I halt my analytics in alarm, my concern for Katrina Carson overriding all other directives.
“Katrina!” I rush for the bathroom door.
