Chapter 9 · The Dead Woman’s Second Face

“Get away from her.”

The voice came from the maintenance speaker above us.

It sounded like my mother.

Nora’s back hit the pipe wall hard enough to rattle the bolts. I had one hand around her throat and the other clamped around the data key she’d dropped. Ian lay three feet away, blood soaking through his shirt, his borrowed data glove still warm against my palm.

“Seren,” Nora said, breathless. “That’s not her.”

“Shut up.”

“Your mother died twelve years ago.”

“I said shut up.”

The speaker crackled.

Leave Nora Quinn. Walk toward the blue service door. Do not look back.

My mother had used that exact tone when I was seven and hiding under the kitchen table. Calm. Flat. Not angry. Worse than angry.

Nora’s fingers closed around my wrist.

“Your left knee is going numb,” she whispered. “You’ve got a bullet fragment lodged behind the joint. If you keep squeezing, you’re going to fall before you reach the door.”

I tightened my grip.

She winced. “Okay. Fine. Fall dramatically. Very on-brand.”

Ian coughed from the floor.