Free Red Handed by Gena Showalter

temple like I’d first feared. Or maybe he had a knife balanced over my head, ready to drop at any moment.
    â€œIf she fails, kick her out,” Mia said. “I want her to have a chance, at least.”
    â€œI’ve read her file, and she’s got ‘problem’ written all over it.” Sweet Voice. The woman who had helped bring me here. Only she didn’t sound sweet anymore. She sounded pissed. “I don’t want to mess with her. New recruits are always a challenge, but she’s hopeless.”
    That hurt. I didn’t know the woman, but her words hurt. I drew in a breath, wishing once again that I could see through the fibers of the hood. As it was, I couldn’t even see a single ray of light.
    â€œCould you kill?”
    Silence.
    â€œPhoenix, could you kill someone?” the one called Mia asked.
    â€œWhat, you’re talking to the lowly little girl now?”
    â€œYes,” she said without remorse.
    â€œI don’t know,” I replied honestly. The logical side of my brain told me that no one in their right mind would want a girl to admit to violent tendencies. In the real world, that would get me placed in isolation or lockup. After the “violent and bloodthirsty” comment, though…
    That night in the forest, I could have killed. Had wanted to kill. The Sybilins were evil, vile, destructive. They shouldn’t be allowed to live or they’d hurt more people. But, would I be able to kill someone—something—else? A living being? “With or without provocation?” I asked.
    â€œEither.”
    I sighed. “Maybe. Probably.”
    A pause.
    â€œAre you afraid of pain?”
    â€œWhat do you think?” I answered dryly.
    The rustle of paper, the shift of a body. “Let’s see.” Deep Voice paused. “In the tenth grade, you were in a fight with a human female double your weight. You required sixteen stitches in your neck.”
    â€œSo.”
    â€œSo, most people are so afraid of pain they would not have challenged—or accepted the challenge—of someone larger than themselves.”
    â€œShe knifed me,” I said, recalling that day. I’d been walking to class, minding my own business, and a girl I’d never spoken with had reached out and sliced my neck with a plastic kitchen knife she’d sharpened and honed.
    â€œHe’s mine,” she’d screamed.
    Apparently, she’d wanted the boy I’d gotten high with the night before. Rumors had surfaced that we’d had sex, and she’d gone a little crazy. The moment I’d realized what she’d done, I had jumped her. Attacked, full force, unconcerned about her size or my lack of size. I’d had only one thought: stop her. She’d been aiming for my face, I’d later learned, wanting to scar me.
    I had a scar, but it stretched the left side of my neck and was covered when I wore my hair down.
    â€œIn eleventh grade, you broke three bones in your wrist,” Deep Voice continued.
    â€œYeah. So?”
    â€œAgain with the so,” Roses muttered. “Explain how that came about.”
    My fingers were beginning to swell from lack of movement so I flexed them as I spoke. “I was in a fight. Again.”
    â€œFor?”
    â€œA new girl at school called my friend a bitch. I reacted. It was dumb,” I added. But I hadn’t thought so at the time. I’d been coming down from a high, and I’d been enraged by everything and everyone. I would have attacked anyone for any ridiculous reason.
    â€œAny other questions for this girl?” Deep Voice asked.
    I knew he wasn’t talking to me.
    Shuffle of feet, the squeak of wheels. I could picture these people—however many there were—huddling together and…yes, they were whispering. I heard the frantic rasp of their voices. I knew they were discussing me, my answers.
    â€œI don’t think any more are necessary,” Roses