Boyd continued, “It’s my job to prepare you for the field. I can goddamn guarantee the enemy will exploit every weakness they can. When you’re in pursuit, the enemy won’t let you scale the smaller wall because you’re delicate—and I’m talking to you, Cummings.”
Henry Cummings studied the floor.
“The enemy doesn’t care how many Zen meditations you do. The enemy doesn’t care how hard you try,” Boyd said. “If given a chance, the enemy will slit your throat. You need to pay attention in my class. That’s the only way you’re going to survive out there in the real world. Am I making myself clear?”
Both the Alphas and the Misfits mumbled their assent. Teddy’s throat was burning.
“Dismissed,” Boyd said.
Teddy gathered her things and rushed for the exit. All she wanted was to get out of there and find a way to blow off steam before she exploded. It seemed arbitrary what rules were upheld in Boyd’s class. That Teddy had almost been rejected from Whitfield all those months ago on a technicality, but Kate was lauded for belittling a fellow student? That wasn’t right. Just as she reached the door, though, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Teddy whirled around, ready to snap at whoever had the audacity to approach her. But it was Molly. She looked Teddy straight in the eyes and uttered a single word: “Thanks.”
The first words Molly had spoken to her in weeks. Teddy shrugged as if to say it was nothing. But one look at Molly’s face reminded her that Molly was an empath; she knew exactly what Teddy was feeling. Molly was the first and only person who had understood her.
CHAPTER TWENTY
AFTER THE SHOWDOWN ON BOYD’S obstacle course, the recruits at Whitfield went on lockdown. Exams were around the corner. In the history of the institution, only one class had managed to survive their first year with all its members. Looking around at her fellow Misfits as they sat in a drafty classroom in Fort McDowell, Teddy was determined to return to Angel Island in January.
The only bright spot in their rigorous schedule: a short reprieve off-island for Thanksgiving break. Both Misfits and Alphas were counting down the days until they could say goodbye to Whitfield and its vegan fare (well, except Jillian). But what waited for Teddy in Vegas? Casinos, poker, Sergei. The old Teddy.
She dragged her thoughts back to Clint’s lecture, the last before the holiday. Clint had picked up on the room’s restless energy and begun telling a story. “So I knew we had the right guy in custody,” he said.
“But you didn’t have any physical proof,” said Zac Rogers, “right?”
“Right,” Clint said. “A psychic’s word—even when you’re one hundred percent certain you’re right—isn’t going to hold up in court. So we had to let him go.”
Liz Cook frowned. “Couldn’t you have done something?”
Clint turned to her. “Like what?”
“You know, get him to confess. He was a child molester. Couldn’t you have used your skill at mental influence to force him to reveal everything?”
Clint shook his head. “That’s coercion. I can use what I know to encourage a confession, but I can’t force one. That’s not how the system works.
“In this situation, though it may be hard to empathize with a defendant, try to understand why he or she behaved in a certain way. Combined with the extrasensory insight you have as a psychic? That’s invaluable. That will allow you to get a genuine confession in a way that no one else can.”
He waited a bit, letting that sink in.
Zac shifted in his seat. “So let me get this straight. Even if I know someone’s guilty, I’m supposed to just sit there and watch a rapist or a serial killer or a terrorist walk out the door? Unless I can try to feel sorry for him and talk about his feelings?”
Clint bristled. “If you can’t get a confession? Or you’re not willing to put yourself in a place to get one? You don’t have a choice. You have to try. And no matter what type of case you’re working on, the cardinal rule of psychics in police work always holds.”
Clint stood and strode to the dry-erase board behind him, writing in bold letters: A PSYCHIC CAN NEVER USE HIS POWER TO TAMPER WITH EVIDENCE OR TESTIMONY TO BENEFIT THE OUTCOME OF A CASE.
“Sometimes the end justifies the means,” Jeremy said.
Teddy looked at him. She couldn’t help remembering what he had told her about his mother’s death on 9/11: he couldn’t do anything before the planes hit the Twin Towers.
“Not when the means are illegal,” said Clint.
Jeremy held Clint’s gaze for a long moment, then turned his attention to his textbook, brushing his fingers along the frayed edge as he muttered softly, “I just don’t like to see innocent people get hurt.” Molly, sitting beside him, placed her hand over his.
Clint sighed. “Nobody does.” With that, he shot a glance at the clock. “For those of you heading home for Thanksgiving, enjoy your weekend. We’ll reconvene Monday afternoon.”
Teddy had gathered her things and moved to follow the rest of her classmates when Clint stopped her.
“I didn’t see your request for a pass to leave campus on my desk,” he said.
“I’m staying here to study,” she said. The thought of an empty campus held a certain appeal. No awkward encounters with Pyro, or Nick, or Kate, or Molly, or Boyd . . . The list was getting long.
He pulled out another Ping-Pong ball from his pocket. “Practice over break, okay?” The ball flew in an arc toward Teddy.
She caught it, barely. Hand-eye coordination wasn’t her strongest suit. Turned out neither was moving Ping-Pong balls with her mind. “Clint?”
He stopped at the door and frowned at the strain in her voice. “Yeah?”
Teddy chewed her lower lip. Since their last meeting, she’d been trying to shake
