The Prize of Dysprosium

Chapter XII: The Murder of Mafalda Kase

"She's alive?"

"Yeah," he laughs tiredly. "She's in hiding, but she got away. When that interview aired," he shakes his head. "I went to find her and she had already left. My dad was running around like a madman." He rubs his arm and accidentally pulls up his sleeve. I catch a glimpse of fresh red marks which haven't faded to bruises yet.

"He didn't-" I begin, but Anton pulls down his sleeve when he sees where my gaze has landed and shakes his head.

"Just grabbed me," he says. "He demanded to know where she is, I didn't know. She contacted me half an hour later though, told me she was okay."

I let out a relieved sigh. I didn't kill the first wife, and now she's out of her husband's reach as long as he doesn't find out where.

"I just, I can't help but wonder," Anton continues and look up at me, "How long you've known."

I lean my shoulder against the wall, suddenly lacking all energy to stay standing. And my feet are still throbbing from the walk to and halfway from the farmhouse.

"I found out before we met," I say softly, and then I watch Anton's mouth press into a thin line. This must be how he looks angry. It's something I've never seen on him before, but he almost seems more alive. How strange that anger suits this gentle creature, makes his eyes burn.

"And you just thought you'd keep it a secret from me?" he asks with steel in his voice.

"How was I supposed to tell you," I whisper.

"Through national tv apparently," Anton says and throws out his arms. "Do you know how tragic it is, sitting in your room and suddenly you hear your dad being accused of abuse in front of the whole country and you realize it's somebody you know who is the accuser? And that you now know that he's the one who told the other secrets too?" His voice rises in volume at the last sentences. "What is the point of it all anyway? All the secrets?"

I take a deep breath. "Anton, there's a rebellion brewing."

"A what?" Anton asks, looking as if all the air has been punched out of him.

"People are tired of living in poverty, they're tired of being scared of Pacifiers and of becoming hooders and dying."

"Hooders?" Anton repeats.

"The socioeconomically lowest. They live in the streets and sell their bodies to whoever have a purpose for them, whether that's rape or organ donation or medical experiments."

"What?" Anton says again. "That can't be right. We live in a fair country, we're wealthy."

"No, the rich are wealthy," I say. "All they need to do is enjoy life and their luminaries. The middle class is tired of having no say in anything even though they live a comfortable life, and the population of the lower class is dying left and right. I almost died when I was fourteen because my sister had died, and then Barooba, the owner, she found me on the street trying to muster enough energy to smash in my own skull."

"No, you're just saying this. I've seen cities, I've been to Chicago-"

"Chicago is a representation," I say. "They have the wealthiest middle class, the most avant-garde science. But it's not an accurate depiction. Think about it. On your way here, did the city look particularly wealthy? Nearly every house is a closed and destroyed stores with hooders huddled together because they have nowhere else to go. In every alley, there is a drug dealer or a dead body. We are the dark parts of the entertainment," I say. "If we lived in a perfect world, why would my job even exist? All the stories I've told you about fantasies I fulfill?"