I was on my own.
“State. Your. Name.”
There was such unbending command in his voice that my lips parted and words spilled out before I could stop myself—though I still didn't obey. “You already know it. This is stupid.”
“This is your last chance. State your name.” “Or suffer the consequences” drifted through the air unsaid.
“Phoenix Ann Germaine.” Just get this over with, I thought. Answer their questions and get out of this hood. Get home. I didn't like that people were watching me, judging me, especially since I didn't know how many were here or even what they looked like—or what they were doing.
Each one of them could have a gun aimed at me, finger poised on the trigger. With that thought, sweat beaded over my skin. A cold sweat that somehow heated my blood. The breath in my lungs fragmented, making it hard to concentrate.
“You're seventeen years old?” a clipped female voice asked.
“Yes.” Almost eighteen, I nearly added, but didn't want to prolong the conversation in any way. I now knew there were at least three people in the room with me. Deep Voice, Roses, and the woman. I'd give them no more than they asked for. No elaboration.
“You are an Onadyn addict,” another voice said, this one male. “Yes?”
That made four people. The entire room tapered to quiet. Not even the rustle of clothes or paper could be heard. I could feel their eyes burning into me, waiting for my answer.
My jaw clenched. “Former addict,” I gritted out.
A chair squeaked. Murmurs. “Why is she even here?” that same male said—the one who'd asked me if I was an addict. “This is ridiculous. A user is always a user.”
A minute passed; I strained to hear but he was never given an answer.
“Do you still use, Phoenix?” a hard feminine voice asked.
If I answered yes, would I be sent home or be forced to remain? Several heart-stopping minutes passed while I considered my response. In the end, I opted for the truth. “No. I told you. I'm a former user.”
Pause.
Then, “When was your last dose?”
“A few months ago,” I answered, once again opting for honesty.
“Why should we believe you?”
Surprise swept through me, potent and strong. Ryan was here. I'd recognize that raspy tone anywhere. He hadn't sounded insulting or sneering. No, he'd sounded expectant. Why?
And what was he doing here? Was he a counselor at the camp?
“Answer the question,” Deep Voice commanded.
I shrugged. “My own mother doesn't trust me, so why should anyone else?” Not only had I used drugs, but I'd slept around, lied, and stolen. No wonder Mom hadn't believed me, I thought bitterly. I'd been a nightmare.
Maybe I did deserve this place.
I'm different now. Don't forget.
“I'd like to hear more about your mother. Do you hate her for not trusting you? Do you blame her?” another woman asked.
I shook my head. “No. I don't hate or blame her.” She'd taken care of me for as long as she'd been able. I was hurt, I couldn't deny that. But they hadn't asked that, so I didn't say it.
“Are you angry with her?”
I paused, then answered honestly, “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because,” I said.
“Because why?” Deep Voice insisted.
“Because she should have loved me enough to keep me. Because she should have loved me enough to try again. Because I'm an idiot. Is that what you want to hear?”
Someone chuckled. Ryan, I think, because the sound of it warmed me.
Still, I ran my tongue over my teeth. I didn't want to be amusing. I wanted to be dismissed. Except…more than leaving, I found that I wanted to know what Ryan was doing here. If he wasn't a counselor, had he been sent to the camp after that fight? If so, why was he allowed to be here during my interrogation?
“How do you feel about other-worlders, Phoenix?” Deep Voice asked.
I handled the switch in topics with ease. “Which ones?”
“All of them,” was the flat response.
“Lumping every species into one category is like lumping all humans into one category. Some are different. Let's take this group, for instance. Each one of you is a bastard, but that doesn't mean the two kids in the car outside are bastards, as well.”
A girl sucked in a breath. A guy cleared his throat.
“I want her out,” someone muttered. “Finishing the interview is pointless.”
“If we let her in and the others start to act like her…”
If my wrists had been free, I might have flipped the speaker off. Something about her irked me. She was so superior. “So, how many people are here?” I asked.
“A good agent can figure that out without the use of her eyes,” a girl said. Allison Stone, I realized with another dose of shock.
She was here, too? Oh, that burned! And what did she mean, “agent”? “Why aren't I allowed to see any of you?”
“We'll ask the questions,” Allison snapped.
“Well, then, I'll decide whether or not to answer,” I replied in the same snotty tone she'd used.
“That's music to my ears, user.”
“Allison,” Deep Voice said. “Shut your mouth or leave. I allowed you to sit in because you're about to graduate and one day you'll help run this camp. Don't make me regret my decision.”
She would help run it? “This is a joke, right? You're all actors trying to bring back that practical joke show.”
No one replied.
“She has a serious attitude problem,” I heard.
Again with the mutterings. I rolled my eyes. Not that they could see me.
“She'll be too hard to control,” someone else offered.
“Yes, but she has passion.” That came from Ryan. “She's had no training. She was drinking that night, but still fought the Sybilins like a highly trained agent. If she hadn't been there, we could have lost.”
“Agent”…that was the second mention. What kind of agent?
“There's her drug problem to contend with.”
“True.”
“And it will be a problem. A big one.”
They were speaking so quickly and so quietly, I had trouble making out who was saying what. But I offered, “No problem at all since it's a former drug problem. And if one of you told my mother that I was smoking Onadyn that night in the forest, I'll kill you.”
“She's violent and bloodthirsty at least; I'll give her points for that,” that clipped female voice said. And she sounded happy about the statement.