“I don’t see where you’re going here, Corbett,” Boyd said.
“Where I’m going, Rosemary, is now I’m going to give Teddy a chance to focus on me.”
“You think she’s a telepath?” Boyd said.
Clint nodded.
A telepath? She could tell if certain people were lying, sure, but her life would have been a hell of a lot easier if she’d known what people were thinking all the time. She could read players, evaluate their behavior, and even guess their actions. But know their thoughts? You’ve got to be kidding me. Teddy stifled a laugh.
“You seem to be the only one finding this amusing, recruit,” Boyd said, tapping her clipboard.
“I’m not kidding, Teddy. Just do what you did in Vegas.” Clint met her eyes.
“But we’re not playing poker. What am I supposed to look for?”
Clint smiled. “Something . . . interesting.”
It wasn’t a decision to reach out to Clint’s mind—it had been a habit since before she could remember—but the force of meeting his consciousness was like nothing she had encountered before. Was it because she was off her meds?
She’d glimpsed one image of Molly, but now she seemed to be turning the pages of a flip-book. She was bombarded with what felt like thousands upon thousands of . . . She wanted to say they were memories. Clint featured prominently in a lot of them. There was a younger Clint in a football uniform, then a military uniform, then a police uniform. Walking through a barren desert. Talking to the same Rosemary Boyd in front of her. Watching Teddy at the casino in Vegas. As soon as she felt had purchase on one image, another would appear. Teddy felt dizzy. If only she could slow them down.
She saw an image of a young Clint, maybe age eight or nine, on a lawn, a black and white dog at his side. In the next, she saw Clint hook the leash on the dog’s collar in the yard. In the next, she saw him go into the house. She saw what he did not: that the dog pulled on his leash. That he jumped the fence to chase a red car down the street, into traffic.
In her mind, Teddy yelled: Stop!
The image began to fade. Clint’s mind grew darker and colder. She wanted to dive back into his consciousness—to see more, learn more—but when she tried to reach out again, she felt as if she had slammed into a metal wall. She opened her eyes, breaking the connection. When she looked up, Clint was standing above her. “Are you okay?”
Teddy looked up at him, confused.
“You cried out for us to stop.”
“What did you see, Cannon?” Boyd said.
Teddy turned to Clint. “When you were young, your dog was hit by a car. You felt like it was your fault. It wasn’t. You didn’t notice that the leash broke.”
Clint looked at her, then sat back down. “It seems like a trivial thing to worry about a dog all these years later.”
Teddy swallowed. “What just happened in there, Clint? It was like I could see everything you’ve ever thought in your entire life.”
“Huh,” Clint said. He leaned forward, studying Teddy for a moment. “I thought you might be a telepath because you could tell when people were lying.” He cleared his throat. “I also practice telepathy, Teddy, but it’s aural. I can hear thoughts. I can hear what you’re thinking at this exact moment, but I don’t have access to anything beyond that.” He leaned forward. “What you just demonstrated—what we’ve never even seen here at Whitfield—was something called astral telepathy. You have access to thoughts not only on the physical plane but on the astral one as well. And it seems like you can see them. You can see not only everything I’m thinking at this moment but everything I’ve ever thought, and one day, maybe, even everything I’ll ever think. Astral telepathy provides access to all thoughts, conscious and unconscious, deliberately transmitted or not.”
You’ve really got to be kidding me.
Boyd cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, Corbett, but the rules are clear. Protocol states that a new recruit must pass two of three psychic tests. You asked me to stand in and witness the exam. Procedure must be followed. It’s only fair.”
Clint sighed. “Sergeant, I’m sure we can make an exception here.”
Red splotches appeared on Boyd’s cheeks. “I wonder if other students were afforded the same treatment as Ms. Cannon.” Teddy wondered if the sergeant was remembering her poor performance on the course. Did Boyd think she wasn’t up to rigors of Whitfield?
“With all due respect, Sergeant, this is not your area of expertise. Once Professor Dunn hears what happened today, he’ll agree with my recommendation.”
Boyd nodded. “I see my services are no longer needed.” She turned and exited the room, closing the door not loudly enough to be an intentional slam but strongly enough to send a message.
Clint waited a moment. “Congratulations,” he said to Teddy. “You passed. But don’t get too excited. What just happened here was the easy part. What comes next is harder. It takes discipline. Dedication. Commitment.”
She wasn’t exactly excited; what she felt was more like relief. “I can do that.”
“Which part of showing up fifteen minutes late after dragging yourself out of bed with a hangover is supposed to convince me of that?”
“It’s the meds—”
“Excuses won’t work anymore. Bottom line, Teddy, and you’ll excuse the poker terms, but I need to know that you’re all in.”
“I am.”
Clint stood. “If you decide to stay, you won’t catch any more breaks. Boyd was right: being a Whitfield student means playing by the rules. And you’ll have to study hard to pass your midyear exam in December. If you don’t, you’re out. Got it?”
“Loud and clear,” Teddy said.
* * *
Teddy needed some time to think. She’d heard once that fresh air could help a hangover, though she’d never bothered to try it before (her preferred cure being hair of the dog). She flashed her ID and slipped through the campus’s checkpoint station, following the rocky coastal path away from
