Free Acting Brave (Fenbrook Academy #3) by Helena Newbury

changing in tone as its owner shot around the turns. By the time Karen reached the exit, it was a full-on scream.
    She flew out of the slide, her body stiff and straight as an arrow, and traveled a surprising distance across the pool before plunging into the water. A few bubbles rose to the surface.
    “Karen?” I said, panicked. “Karen?!” I prepared to dive down to get her.
    Karen broke the surface and heaved in a lungful of air, a huge grin on her face. “ Again!”

 
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 9
    Ryan
     
    They’d partnered me with Hollister. A good guy. Insisted on eating Cheetos in the patrol car, but he had my back, and he was calm and cool in a way that I wasn’t.
    I got the feeling that was kind of the point.
    We were at a domestic dispute—which was code for “she called the cops on him.” I rapped on the door and told them it was the NYPD, and immediately the argument inside changed from shouts to bitter mutterings.
    The door opened. It was a woman and her lip was bleeding, one cheek swollen and reddened. She was a frail little thing, not much bigger than Jasmine’s friend Karen, and she had the same dark, frizzy hair. She was in a white tank top and sweat pants, her feet bare, as if she’d been happily watching TV on the couch before it all went wrong. Her arms were sort of half-folded, one across her stomach and the other hanging down by her side.
    I notice stuff like that. People think I’m dumb because I’m big and I don’t talk much, but not talking gives me time to see .
    “I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes on the floor. “It was a mistake. We had a fight, and I…I shouldn’t have called you.”
    She glanced up at me for a split second and saw me looking at her lip. She tried to lick the blood away with her tongue.
    “Is your husband there, ma’am?” asked Hollister. His voice was carefully neutral. I used to be able to do that tone, too.
    The door opened a little wider. He was still in his suit pants, shirt and tie, and from the look of them he had a nice, stable job with a Fortune 500 company. A nice, respectable guy with his respectable wife in their respectable apartment. The sort no one suspects. You say spousal abuse and they think of a trailer park.
    “You mind if we come in and take a look around?” asked Hollister.
    “That’s not necessary,” said the guy. He glanced at me and then decided to focus on Hollister, since he was the one doing all the talking. He opened his arms wide to show how innocent he was; I wondered if he was in sales. “Look. I know this looks bad. But really, it’s silly. We had a fight—about what to eat for dinner, of all things—and then Jackie turned around and her foot caught the rug and she went headfirst into the coffee table. I mean, God, it’s lucky it wasn’t glass or anything. Right?”
    Hollister looked at Jackie. I could tell from the way she was twitching that she wanted to look over her shoulder at her husband for help, but she was willing herself not to. She nodded. “I tripped over the rug,” she said.
    I could feel it start inside me, then. Leaking out, hot and red, just like the blood had stained Hux’s shirt. Polluting everything inside me, turning it red, too, everything becoming bright and hot and simple. No. Control it.
    “It’s a long way from the rug,” I said, staring at the room behind them. The first time I’d spoken since I’d knocked on the door.
    Everyone turned to look at me. The husband wasn’t a small guy, but even he had to tilt his head up to look me in the eye. He took a microscopic step backward. “What?” he croaked.
    “The coffee table’s a long way from the rug,” I said. It wasn’t, but I wanted to see how he’d react.
    He started to say something, then thought better of it. The blood was draining from his face.
    “Ma’am, I need to speak to you alone,” said Hollister, following procedure. “Sir, can I ask you to go to another room, please?”
    The husband’s knuckles weren’t