“Accurate,” he replied. “It would help point us in the right direction.”
“How do you think”—Con stumbled over her next word—“she died?”
“Look. No offense to Palingenesis, but we’re not in the business of taking anyone’s word for it. Until we have a body, I’m not speculating on cause of death.”
“So she could still be alive?”
He shrugged. “Palingenesis doesn’t think so, but we’re not ruling out the possibility. That would be awkward for you, though, huh? Constance D’Arcy pops up alive with you running around pretending to be her. Wonder what they would do with you then. Would be a dangerous precedent.”
“I’m not pretending,” she whispered, but the feeling of being an imposter returned stronger than ever. He was also right about it being dangerous. The one absolute and sacrosanct law governing cloning was that there never be more than one of anyone. If the original Con D’Arcy turned up alive, then her life would take precedence. Con didn’t know how she felt about that—or maybe it would be more accurate to say that she didn’t know how to reconcile feeling both ways about it. On the one hand, she wanted more than anything for her original to be safe. On the other, she didn’t want to die. After all, she was Con D’Arcy too. One more way her existence was a paradox.
Clarke shrugged again. “So, you going to help us out or what?”
“I could do that maybe. Will you do something for me?”
Clarke frowned. “We’re not bargaining here.”
It was her turn to shrug. How many club managers had said the same thing over the years? “We’re always bargaining.”
“I’d think it would be in your interest to help me.”
“A girl can have more than one interest.”
Clarke rolled his eyes. “What do you want?”
“I want access to everything you learn.”
“Absolutely not,” Clarke said.
“And if she turns out to be dead, I need you to push through the death certificate and get it into the system as fast as possible.”
“Why?” Clarke asked. “Oh, so you can become her, right? Isn’t that how it works?”
“I am her,” Con said.
“Whatever you say.”
“I am.”
“Not legally,” Clarke needled.
“No, not legally, and I can’t access my bank account until then.”
“Or get a job,” he reminded her.
She didn’t like how much he seemed to be enjoying her crisis. “I’ll also need you to pack up a few of my things. I really just want my notebooks and guitar. Ship it up to DC. Since it’s not safe for clones south of the Potomac.”
Clarke sat back. “I’ll do what I can on the death certificate. But I can’t help you with getting your stuff back.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Take your pick. None of it belongs to you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Commonwealth of Virginia does not acknowledge cloning or clones. Which means you have no legal standing under Virginia law. If Constance D’Arcy is dead, then her estate is the property of her husband. You want anything, take it up with him.”
Con felt the blood leave her face in a cold rush. “Her what?”
“Her husband,” Clarke repeated.
“I’m married?” Con mumbled in shock. Kala had mentioned something about a new boyfriend, but a husband? That was impossible. It was like the detective was describing a complete stranger.
Clarke looked confused. “Well, you’re not. But yeah, she was, little more than a year now. How do you not know that? I thought they gave you her memories.”
“My memories,” she said defensively.
“Sure. So why don’t you know about him?”
“I’m missing some of them,” Con admitted.
“How much?”
She barely heard him, instead trying to wrap her mind around what the detective was telling her. Married? How? Since Zhi, she hadn’t dated anyone for more than a few weeks. Now she was supposed to believe that she’d met a guy, moved to Richmond, and married him? It was absurd.
“How much?” he repeated.
“The last year and a half.”
Clarke let out a long whistle. “You still want to tell me you’re her?”
“I’m married,” Con said to herself, trying to make it make sense.
Clarke saw her discomfort and kept turning the knife. “Want to see his picture?”