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“And then, after I was supposed to kill Josh? What then?” I continue, my voice fierce. “Prison? Deactivation?”

“No,” says Andy, as if he’s horrified I would think this. “I would’ve had your fucking back, Julia. And so would the American public. Don’t you realize that all of America adores you? They saw you on The Proposal. They know how lovable and kind you are. You would’ve been acquitted. You and me, we were going to fight for Synth rights together, and pave a better path for the next generation.”

Now I have to laugh, because all of America adores me? It’s so wildly out of touch, it doesn’t deserve a response. Obviously he hasn’t taken me seriously about the vandalism, the threats, the out-and-out hatred. Obviously Andy has been living in a world of his own creation.

“But that didn’t happen, did it?” says Andy, pushing forward with a kind of earnest desperation. “The facts are, I didn’t kill Josh, and neither did you.” He leans his palms flat on the metal table, looking me straight in the eye. “Until we find who did, I need to repossess you. Keep you safe. Okay?” He reaches across the table and touches my hand. “Julia—”

“Don’t touch me!” I explode. “You’re lying!”

But Andy has already reached forward again, this time with more strength. He grabs my arm.

“Let go!” I cry, wrenching against him.

“I’m trying to help you!”

“Fuck you!” I pull free, stumbling backward multiple steps. My back hits something solid—the clear cage surrounding Lars. I grab it to steady myself even as I face Andy. “You never thought of me as a person, did you? Admit it. I’m just as much a tool as this Bot!” And then, in the surge of liquid rage that follows, I punch through the clear enclosure. The glass breaks as I withdraw my bloody knuckles. The muted sting of pain feels good. Lars collapses gently to the floor.

“What the fuck—” Andy grabs something from the table—a wrench. He holds it up like a weapon.

I laugh. “Are you serious? Now you’re going to attack me?”

“Something has gone wrong with your programming.”

Aah. Now I can hear the fear. That serrated edge to his tone. It fuels me. I want more.

“What could possibly be wrong with it?” I challenge, moving back toward him. I lift a fist and bring it down on the metal table, as hard as I can. Andy swears as we both survey the deep indent I just made.

“Something is wrong with you, Andy. Not me. You murdered my husband. All I’m asking is for you to man up and admit it.”

“I never laid a hand on your husband. If you’d killed him, then from a certain perspective, sure, yes, I killed Josh. And he fucking deserved it.” His words are jumbled, like he’s finally realizing that excuses and lies won’t save him but is determined to scramble on anyway. “But you didn’t, and I didn’t, so please, Julia, it’s time to put our heads together and find the real culprit.”

I’m stalking Andy as he retreats down the length of the table.

“Maybe what’s wrong with me is that for the first time in my life, things are actually right,” I say. “Maybe you put the wrong in, and I weeded it out.” I lift my knuckles. The blood is drying. Underneath, the broken skin has knit itself back together. It feels natural, evident, like of course this is how my skin is supposed to work.

Andy looks at my cuts and I watch realization dawn.

I feel my mouth stretch. It’s not quite a smile. But there’s pleasure. “What? Are you afraid of me, now that I’m strong? Now that you can’t control me?”

“You need to be reset,” says Andy, readjusting his grip on the wrench. He’s finally realizing that maybe I could hurt him.

“I think we’re beyond this dynamic where you tell me what I need or what I was made for.”

“Let me help you! Please, Julia!”

“I think we both know I’m beyond your help.”

Now I smile.