“I guess. I mean . . . you got to stick up for yourself.”
“What if . . .” She searches faces before pointing at Gil. “He insults you . . . calls you a name?”
Dylan looks Gil over, clearly unimpressed. “He’s scrawny. Wouldn’t take much for me to teach him a lesson.”
“What if you were teamed up together and he’s your partner on an assignment . . . would you still teach him a lesson then?”
Clearly, his answer should be a no. Dylan’s smart enough to catch on to that. He grins and drags two hands through his straw hair. “Oh, no. If we were working together, I’d control myself. Sure.”
“But what about your anger? Your aggression? What do you do with those feelings?”
“Guess I’d work out, go for a run . . . and focus my energy on completing whatever job you people give me.”
She stares at him contemplatively, saying nothing for several moments. Then she lowers her pen to paper. Everyone watches her as she writes on her clipboard, nodding. “Very good,” she murmurs.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Clearly, he’s passed her test . . . this borderline sociopath. It all comes together for me then. She seems to approve of admissions of violence. As long as we can claim we can be controlled. As long as we follow instructions.
Suddenly, I don’t feel quite so lost. I know what she wants to hear. What they want to see in us while we’re here.
My gaze flicks to Dylan. I think about what he did to get imprinted. What he did and I did just doesn’t even compare, and yet we’re both imprinted. We both, presumably, possess an aptitude for violence. I have it in me. At least according to my DNA. It just hasn’t surfaced yet. God willing, it never will.
And yet I have to believe I’m what they’re looking for. I need to make sure they see that. I cross my arms. I either succeed or I’m going to end up in a detention camp.
Looking up from her clipboard, she asks cheerfully, “Anyone else want to share?”
The question makes me think of all those first days of school when we would share our names and adventures from the summer. Trips to Vail, Costa Rica, Disney World. I don’t expect to hear any of that today. No. Here, I’m more likely to get confessions that make my blood run cold.
Maybe the day will come when I get used to this. My face starts to prickle with awareness and I turn sideways to catch Sean staring at me, his blue-gray eyes all smoke and shadows. Unfathomable.
Every time I’ve asked him how he got his imprint, he stays ominously silent. Would it horrify me? Apparently, it didn’t land him in jail. Would it be like in the beginning when I was afraid of him again?
I inhale, suddenly certain that I won’t ask again.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers ..................................................................
* * *
Transcript of interview with one of the first confirmed HTS carriers DR WAINWRIGHT: . . . and do you remember the moment you took the knife from the drawer? When you cornered Monica Drexler and her daughter in the kitchen?
RYAN YATES: Yeah.
DR. WAINWRIGHT: When you approached Mrs. Drexler and her daughter . . . did she say anything to you?
RYAN YATES: Yeah. She begged me not to hurt them . . . not to hurt Amy.
DR. WAINWRIGHT: And then what happened?
RYAN YATES: I stabbed Mrs. Drexler first. Right here. In the chest— DR. WAINWRIGHT: You stabbed her seven times. . . .
RYAN YATES: Yeah. I guess. I had to stop when Amy ran out of the room. She was fast. She almost made it to the door, but I caught her. . . .
DR. WAINWRIGHT: And then . . .
RYAN YATES: I told her she should have gone out with me. That she should have liked me. And I cut her throat.
DR. WAINWRIGHT: How did you feel then, Ryan?
RYAN YATES:. . . Better . . .