Read The Peyti Crisis: A Retrieval Artist Novel: Book Five of the Anniversary Day Saga (Retrieval Artist series 12) for Free Online

Thank you, sir,” Jhena said. She actually felt grateful. It surprised her.
    Duran’s image had vanished. (Before the thank-yous? Jhena wasn’t sure.) Jhena double-checked her links, made sure that she could block the visuals now. If Duran tried to contact her again, then Duran would believe that Jhena was cleaning herself off.
    Which she would be.
    She would also be taking care of the DNA, like she had promised Didier.
    He hadn’t lied about the procedures.
    She hoped he hadn’t lied about anything else.

 
     
     
     
    SEVEN
     
     
    THE COVERALLS MADE Jhena feel like a different person.
    Or, more accurately, they made her feel like the person she’d left behind.
    She sat on the bench between the lockers, finger-combing her now-dry hair. She had taken a quick shower because she didn’t want to leave the evidence bags alone for very long, even if they were in a guest locker, secured to the chips hidden under her skin. Even after the shower, she still felt like she smelled of vomit: she knew that came from the lining of her nose, and the back of her throat. She had used oral cleansers, and they had helped, just not quite enough.
    Her hands were still shaking, and the coveralls weren’t helping.
    They were blue and white, prison guard regulation clothing, for dirty jobs, and they were made of some scratchy material, as if the designers couldn’t find something soft that worked equally well.
    The scratchiness, the bagginess, the unfamiliarity reminded her of that night her father had given her to the authorities, with the promise that her aunt would come for her. She had no idea what would happen; she thought he was gone for good, and that he had lied.
    He was gone for good, but he hadn’t lied—at least not to her. Her aunt had shown up from Earth, a seven-day journey. By then, Jhena had given up all hope.
    And the entire time, she’d been wearing regulation coveralls, because god forbid that any child would feel different from any other child in government care. The long-timers had no special clothing, so Jhena didn’t get to wear hers.
    She had gotten it back, along with the toys her father had packed for her, but she hadn’t had any access to it during those seven days.
    Those days had changed her, made her quieter, made her terrified, at least on some level. She certainly never trusted anyone.
    Even though she was trusting Didier now.
    Kinda. She was at least following his instructions.
    Or she would the moment she opened the locker.
    You’ll be surprised at how simple it will be, Didier had said as he told her what to do after she left the cell block. You take out the evidence bag, put your clothes in it, then put that bag wherever they want you to. Then you take the box back to storage, with all of the DNA bags inside it. No one will look at it, and I’ll clear everything out when I leave.
    She stared at that closed locker door. Black, like everything else in this place; a bit reflective, unlike other parts, probably so someone can check to see if the clothes fit properly without moving to the mirrors; impossible to open without the right code, just like all the other staff areas in the entire prison block.
    She swallowed. Her throat hurt. She had actually damaged it. The last time she’d been that sick had been the one and only time she had gotten drunk. Being drunk made her uncomfortable; the loss of control terrified her, instead of liberating her like her friends had promised. And then it had all ended like the last hour had ended, on a bathroom floor, staring down cleaning bots as if they had a mind of their own.
    He was using her. That’s what her entire mind kept coming back to.
    Didier was using her. He might have done so from the very beginning.
    He hadn’t chatted her up because he found her attractive. When had any man found her attractive? He wasn’t needy—that had become clear in the cell block. He had used her, maybe not with Frémont’s death in mind, but somehow, with some random