Edge by Thomas Blackthorne Page B

Lexa in the consulting room, her expression as she broke the news. "She wasn't lying, I'm almost sure of it. She was scared for Richard's sake, as I am."
        "You can tell if someone is lying, Doctor?"
        "Not really. If someone stares up and to their right, that may indicate visual imagination, but not necessarily falsehood. Some people navigate their memories by mental imagery. The other common mistake, made by people with too little training, is to assume that signs of stress, like hand-wringing or crossing ankles, mean someone is lying. It only means the person is stressed."
        There had been far too many miscarriages of justice, innocent people pressurised by the interrogating officers, forced into giving false confessions, because officers misinterpreted stress or visualisation signals as guilt. Suzanne had been an expert witness in a retrial – an innocent man walking free after seven years in a cell – and the officer probably knew that already.
        "Are you stressed right now?" he asked.
        "Of course I am. If I could give you any hint about where Richard might be, then I would. He was under pressure at school, and I don't know the specifics, because I'd intended to follow up on that in the next session. You might look for evidence of bullying, probably from peers."
        "Meaning possibly from teachers?"
        "Possibly, but there was no evidence for that. But you need to know where he's headed, not what he's running from, and I can't help. You must know more about homeless kids on the street than I do. Where would he go?"
        The officer looked over Suzanne's shoulder, presumably reading the screen.
        "Is there anything else you can think of, Doctor?"
        "No, I'm sorry. And I've thought about it, over and over again."
        "I'm sure you have. If you could hand over your phone, please."
        "My…? Oh. Sure."
        She put it on the table, just as he slid a handset toward to her.
        "This is your replacement, from us. You can keep it."
        "Really? It looks expensive."
        "That's all right. It will register to you by the time you've left the building. Any cached files will be copied during the procedure."
        "But my contact list and–"
        "It's all online." The officer waved his hand. "Cloud computing, the web all around us. Only the most recent changes are in the handset, in cache, and we'll make sure they're copied to you."
        "Well…" She picked up the new phone, its TCC logo embossed in gold on black: Ty ndall Cloud Communica tions. "Thank you."
        "Thanks for your help, Dr Duchesne." He popped her old phone into a clear plastic bag and sealed it. "Nice talking with you."
        "Yes. I hope you find Richard."
        The door clicked open.
        "We'll do our best, Doctor. Mind how you go."

    There were fire-eaters and clowns on stilts, jugglers and acrobats clowns performing flick-flack somersaults across the cobblestones. The piazza of Covent Garden was busy, usual for a summer evening. Suzanne and Carol watched the performers, flames and movement serving as distraction for the eyes, while thought followed its own path, however dark.
        "At least I got a new phone out of it."
        "While they do forensics on the old."
        "I don't even know what's on it. The officer said it's all out in the clouds, the data."
        "Probably records all your sexual encounters." Carol nudged her. "So when was the last time you got laid?"
        Despite her age and her training, Suzanne's cheeks warmed. "You are a bad person, Dr Klugmann."
        "And you've not yet answered my question, Dr Duchesne. So are you going to answer me now or in a couple of minutes?"
        "No. You want smut, check your own phone."
        "You think there's room on one itty-bitty handset for all my sensual encounters?"
        "Probably not."
        One of the jugglers dropped his clubs, apparently by