Page 116 of Made for You

But you did, says a cruel voice inside me.

No! I was in the grip of something horrible that I couldn’t control.

You were in control the whole time.

I wanted to fix my marriage.

You wanted to end it.

Bob is on his knees now, checking Josh’s throat for a pulse. He rocks back on his heels.

“No blood on the carpet.” His voice is deep and throaty, like gravel under wheels. “That’s a damn miracle.”

Tears flood my eyes. Annaleigh will be taken away. I’ll never again smell her sweet head—never again feel her limp, trusting weight—

“Fuck,” comes a voice from behind us. We both turn. It’s Eden, just inside the front door, a backpack slung over one shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” I say, gesturing helplessly to Bob. “I thought he was you.” I raise my phone and notice Andy’s text. Oh, no. I forgot that Andy is on the way.

Stopping for gas. Be there in 40. Bringing vino.

Rapidly, I text back. Not feeling so great tonight—can we reschedule??

But he may not see it while he’s driving. Or may not heed it. I know Andy.

“Andy is coming,” I say, hearing the helplessness in my own voice.

Eden looks at Bob. Bob looks at Eden.

“It wasn’t her fault,” Eden finally says.

Bob nods slowly, then turns a frown on Josh. “Well,” he says, drawing the vowel out long. He’s thoughtful. Calm. Collected. “The first thing we gotta do is get rid of the body.”

NOW

Andy launches the wrench. I dodge easily. It makes a bell-like sound as it bounces off the table, a clank as it hits the floor.

“Why are you trying to hurt me?” I say as Andy eases around the edge of the table, his hands groping for another tool. He picks up a screwdriver.

“You need help, Julia. This isn’t you.”

“This is me,” I spit. “A realer me than I’ve ever been.”

“Let me access your mainframe. I can set this right. Bring you back to yourself.”

“You mean bring me down again? Down where you’ve always wanted me to stay?”

I bend my knees and spring. It’s like flying. My feet land square on the metal table, the half-built Synth jumping with the impact. Andy looks small beneath me. Dispassionately, I wonder if that’s how I looked to Josh when he first knocked me down in the chair, and the second time, when he knocked me away as I reached for my cell phone. Andy’s eyes are wide, his upturned face wreathed with the horror that he deserves to feel. Did I look horrified, too, to Josh? Did he feel in those two moments that I somehow deserved it?

“Tell me the truth,” I say.

Andy backs away. I leap. It’s incredible to feel the power in my legs, giving height to my jump. I land on Andy. He crashes to the ground. I pin his legs and hold his arms down. His face is inches from mine and I can smell his fear, tart, sharp like corrosive acid.

“Tell me the truth,” I roar. His brown eyes are tortured, and it’s not just fear. It’s disbelief. He can’t believe that the Synth he so meticulously programmed to be his weapon finally has a mind of her own.

Well, that beautiful justice he tried to serve has come calling.

And then, with a cry, he pulls an arm free and stabs the screwdriver into the side of my head.

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