Jack’s eyes are wide and shocked. I notice that his nose, while unbroken, is still swollen from where I hit him earlier.

“How in the hell did you find me?” Jack demands.

My head snaps back in surprise. I thought he was the one to hack into my cuff and send me the tracking code to get here. I glance nervously behind me, half-expecting someone to pop out of the waterway nearby, as if this were all a setup.

“Shit, did you bring the police?” Jack growls. He starts to slam the door shut, but I cram my foot in the way.

“No,” I shoot back. “Although you’re making me think I should call them.”

“Don’t,” Jack orders. His jaw clenches. He looks furious.

Like he can tell me what to do. If I have to, I’ll bring down the Prime Administrator on his head. But first: “I came for answers.”

“Well, I’m not talking to you. All you do is hit me.” He tries to shut the door again, but my foot remains in the way. I push my shoulder against the door, and Jack curses as it opens more. I’m surprised to see that I can push my way through—he’s far bigger than I—but I have good leverage from my spot on the stoop. I shoulder the door open even further, and Jack gives up, letting it swing open.

 “Don’t punch me again,” he says in a defeated tone, backing into the shadows of the house.

I step inside, hesitant, my hand covering my cuff. If I have to, I can push the panic button.

“Shut the door,” Jack growls.

“No,” I shoot back. I want answers, but I don’t want to be locked in a room with this possible psychopath.

Jack reaches around me and pushes the door. It slams shut. My fist is already curled, and he has to duck out of the way to avoid being hit. “I said don’t punch me!” he shouts.

I ignore him and test the doorknob. It’s not locked. I can still escape.

“Why did you even come here if you were just going to leave?” Jack’s not yelling any more, but he still sounds furious. “And how did you find me?”

I don’t answer, my eyes still on the door. Then I say, “Someone sent me a map program to my eye bots. It led me here. Did you do that?”

Jack shakes his head angrily. “I told you I didn’t. Why would I even want you here?”

“The map program used my father’s image.” The hologram of Dad stands silently beside Jack.

Jack is silent for a long moment. “I wouldn’t do that to you, Ella,” he says, his voice softer. “I know how much he meant to you.”

I jerk away from him. “Don’t pretend that you know me,” I snarl.

For the first time, Jack’s face betrays an emotion other than anger and frustration: he seems surprised. Maybe even hurt. His eyes widen, and he opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

“Regardless,” he says coldly, “it wasn’t me. But I need to know how you found me so I can make sure no one else can find me.”

I open my mouth to argue, my mind racing. This isn’t fitting together the way I thought it would, and I feel unbalanced and thrown off course. I expected to find answers, but all I have is more questions. I need to find out who did hack the interface system and got me the map code. It had to be someone close, someone very close to me—it came from my cuff, after all, to say nothing of the appearance of Dad’s face. And I don’t think it was Jack—his shock was real.

Jack whirls around, staring at me intently. “For there to be a tracking program, there has to be something to track. You can’t just track a person.”

“Unless they have tracker nanobots in them,” I point out.

Jack’s eyes widen, and he looks momentarily panic-stricken, as if he’d like to rip off his skin. But then he shakes his head, “No, that’s not it,” he says, almost as if assuring himself. “Xavier’s meds…”

“Hmm?” I ask, watching him closely.

“I don’t have tracker bots. There’s something else.” Jack narrows his eyes at me. “Son of a bitch,” he says, wonderingly. “I know what it is.” Jack rips his jacket off, his hands scrunching the black material, looking for something. There’s a flash at his collar from the golden bee pin he wears, but that’s not what Jack’s trying to find. From a hidden, inner pocket, he pulls out an old-fashioned pocket watch.

I gasp. “That—!” I glance up at the holographic projection of Dad standing mutely beside Jack. But before I can finish the sentence—That watch belonged to Dad!—Jack throws it on the ground and stomps on it with all his weight. The watch crunches, and the hologram of Dad disappears.

“Why would you do that?!” I scream, dropping to my knees and picking up the bent and broken watch face. “That was my father’s!” This was an antique, passed down for generations from father to son in my family. Dad gave to it to me a year or so before he died, after Mom seemed cured and he was promoted to work directly in Triumph Towers, researching bots and androids for the government. The engraving on the inside of the watch is still there, exactly as I knew it. P.K.D.S. The initials of my great-something grandfather.

Jack swoops down and picks up a cracked silver-colored bead from the shattered remains of the watch. “Well, Dr. Philip didn’t put a tracker in it, that’s for damn sure!” He holds the tiny object out to me, glowering.

“How did you even get this watch?” I ask quietly, staring down at the broken pieces.

Jack stands abruptly, knocking the watch face out of my hand and dropping the metallic bead into my palm. “A tracker. You put a tracker on me.”

“I didn’t do this,” I say in an even monotone. I’m barely able to control my rage. I have so few things that are my father’s, just his, and seeing the broken watch is like seeing a memory of him smashed against the dirty stone floor. “How did you get my father’s watch?”

“Because you gave it to me!” Jack roars. I flinch, and he takes a step back, breathing deeply. His eyes search mine, full of scorching rage. “Are they coming?” he asks.

“Wh-who?” I stutter.

“The M.P.s. The cops. Did you lead them here with your stupid little tracker program?” He steps around me, flinging open the door and looking out into the bright sunlight.

“I didn’t call anyone,” I say. My voice is stronger with each word. “No one followed me. And I didn’t do that. I didn’t put a tracker in the watch. And I didn’t give it to you.”

“What are you even doing here then?” Jack says. His voice is low now, and it sounds almost disappointed. Defeated. “I know you hate me, Ella, but why are torturing me?”

“Torturing? Hate you?” I gape at him. “I don’t even know you!”

Jack’s face falls into an emotionless mask. “I’m beginning to think that might be true.”

“Of course it’s true!” I shout. “I never even saw you before yesterday! So I couldn’t have put a tracker on you—and I’m still waiting to hear how you stole my father’s watch!”

The color drains from Jack’s face. He just stares at me, speechless.

“What?” I demand.

“You remember Akilah, though, right?”

My hand goes instinctively to my necklace, the fortune cookie locket with a digi file of Akilah and me inside. She has a matching one.

Jack runs his fingers through his hair. “I’ve heard that the government uses subliminal messaging to control people,” he mutters. He casts an appraising eye on me. “But this is so specific…”

“How do you know Akilah?” I demand again. I don’t care what kind of mind games he’s playing at; I want answers.

Jack doesn’t speak for a moment. He looks as if he’s carefully choosing his words. “Akilah and I were in the same unit.”

“She’s never mentioned you.”

“She probably didn’t think you wanted to hear about me.”

I rake my eyes over him. “Obviously not.”

“No—I mean—” Jack growls in frustration.

“Let’s just clear this up right now,” I snap. I raise my wrist, my fingers skimming across the surface of my cuff.

“What are you doing?” Jack demands.

“Calling Akilah. If she knows you, she can tell me.”

“No—don’t!” he tries to knock my hand away.

I narrow my eyes. My fingers stay on my cuff—not on Akilah’s contact info, but on the police’s.

Jack’s lips curl up, but it’s not a smile. It’s a grimace. There’s a look in his eyes that is far sadder than I’ve ever seen before. My stomach drops, and dread rises up within me. A warning flashes through my head, and I’m suddenly reminded of the day my dad came into my bedroom to tell me that Mom had Hebb’s Disease.

“Akilah’s dead,” Jack says, and it’s not just the words that kill me, but the tone, full of sympathy and sorrow.