My Fake Husband's AI Predicted My Murder

Chapter 3: How to Look Safe

The first client who called did not ask whether Aria was frightened.

"Did you marry him with our names in your pocket?"

Ruth Danner had lost an apartment after a background service confused her record with another woman's. She had spent eighteen months answering questions Aria said would eventually make the company accountable. Now Aria listened to her breathe through the phone and could not find a clean answer.

"The money was put into an independent fund. He can't withdraw it."

"That isn't what I asked."

Aria closed her eyes. Theo had heard almost the same sentence from her a few hours earlier.

"Yes. I thought it would keep the case alive."

"You should have told us."

"I should have."

Ruth hung up. She had earned the right to do that. Aria put the phone on Mara's kitchen table and did not reach for it when it rang again.

Theo arrived at nine, carrying breakfast nobody had asked for. Mara let him in because Aria had asked to see the emergency service paperwork. He wore the previous night's shirt. There was a brown mark on the cuff where his hotel coffee had spilled.

"June says the lock company suspended the connection," he said.

"Good."

He set the food on the table. Aria recognized the sesame rolls from a bakery near her old office. She had mentioned liking them once, months ago. The fact that he remembered irritated her more than an expensive bouquet would have.

"I don't need breakfast to forgive you."

"I know. I need breakfast."

He took a roll and sat on the chair Mara indicated. Aria waited a stubborn minute, then took one too. She had not eaten since before the rehearsal.

The emergency service agreement was shorter than their marriage contract. Theo had signed it alone. He had left the box for additional adult residents blank.

"Did you forget I lived there?" she asked.

"No. I knew you would object."

He said it without looking away. It deprived her of the easier work of catching him in a lie.

"Then why?"

"Because I was afraid, and being able to open a door felt like doing something."

"You could have talked to me."

"You would have said no."

"Yes."

He rubbed his eyes. "That's what I didn't want to face."

Mara's laptop chimed. Helix had offered Aria a live session with an independent safety counselor. The invitation included a link to her current Pallas report and promised that declining would not affect her access to help.

Aria almost laughed.

"I want to see what they ask for," she said.

Mara opened the call on the kitchen laptop. A woman named Petra appeared, wearing a headset. She explained that the session was recorded and that she would follow a triage form. Aria told her Theo was in the room. Petra asked whether Aria wanted him to leave.

"No. Ask your questions."

Petra began with ordinary things: somewhere to stay, threats, injuries. Aria answered. Then Petra glanced away from the camera and asked whether she was willing to restore a shared routine with her spouse.

Theo put down his roll.

"You just showed her a film of me killing her."

"I didn't show that film," Petra said. For the first time she sounded tired rather than soothing.

"Who wrote the question?" Aria asked.

Petra looked at something below the screen. "It's part of the intervention plan. You may skip any question."

On the live report beside the video window, Aria's risk score moved from ninety-one to ninety-four.

"What just changed?"

"I can't see the scoring process."

"Can someone watching this call see it?"

Petra hesitated. "The supervisory team can view active sessions."

There was their eyes-and-ears problem, at least for this room. No machine had read Aria's anger from the air. They had opened a camera to a service employed by the company frightening her.

Theo reached for the laptop lid. Aria put her hand over his.

"Wait."

The score fell to eighty-two.

They both looked at it. Her fingers rested over his knuckles. She could feel the grain of dry skin where he had washed his hands too often since the rehearsal.

Petra was silent.

Aria removed her hand. The score rose again after a short delay.

"Did you do that?" she asked the counselor.

"I don't set the number."

"Did you select a box?"

Petra's eyes moved downward. "There's an engagement field."

"What counts as engagement?"

The counselor did not answer. Then she said, more quietly, "I'm going to end this session and refer you to a service outside our network. I don't think this is appropriate for your situation."

The call ended. Mara closed the browser. The saved copy of the report stayed exactly as it was. It did not know they were sitting in silence.

Theo stared at the laptop. "It rewarded you for touching me."

"Or a supervisor did. We can't tell from one change."

"Does the difference matter right now?"

She looked at his hand. "Not to how it felt."

That was the part she had not wanted to say. For a moment the touch had been pleasant. Then a number had congratulated her for it, and the pleasure belonged to someone else.

Theo drew his hand back under the table.

"Don't let it take that too," she said.

He looked up.

"I don't mean touch me. I mean you don't have to hide your hands every time I look at them."

Mara got up to make more coffee. She left the laptop shut. The machine could not see Aria decide to finish her roll or Theo pick a sesame seed from his sleeve. Aria found that oddly consoling.

June called before they finished breakfast. The office camera outside Aria's rented workspace had received a clip stamped with tomorrow night's date. It showed Theo entering with his old Helix badge.

"A timestamp can be wrong," June said. "I've got someone checking the original system. Don't go over there."

Aria watched Theo's expression as she repeated it.

"Tomorrow?" he said.

"October twelfth, eleven forty-seven. Not the seventeenth. It's a different event."

He looked toward the front door, where his coat hung beside hers.

"My old badge is in that pocket."

Mara brought the coat to the table. Theo turned out the pockets while Aria watched.

The badge was there.

So was a printed photograph of Nadia Mercer, his sister, dated six months after the date on her grave.