his bones, his many tattoos a jumble of colorless shapes. He has a long, unsmiling face and dark eyes without any glimmer of life, like a dead thing dug up from the ground.
I always found him off-putting. Now I despise him.
I’ll never forget how he dragged the chained-up Ozzy across the floor of the Grand Hall without a hint of sympathy in those black eyes. I almost think he enjoyed it.
I know he enjoys teaching the Torture Techniques class. He forces us to practice non-lethal torments on our fellow students, including electrocution, stress positions, pressure points, and dry-boarding. If we don’t comply with enough enthusiasm—aka sadism—then he “demonstrates” the procedures himself.
Luckily, today’s Interrogation class involves only psychological techniques.
We’ve already covered ego-fragmentation and learned helplessness. Now Professor Penmark lectures us on deception.
“Information is useless if you cannot tell if it is true or false,” he says, in his thin tenor. “How do you know if your subject is lying?”
His dark eyes crawl over us as we sit captive behind our desks.
“Lack of eye contact,” Joss Burmingham guesses. His room is across the hall from mine, but we’ve never spoken because I’ve never seen him outside of class not wearing headphones with the volume turned all the way up. He and Rakel must be in a competition to see who can go deaf first.
“No—too much eye contact,” Lola Fischer contradicts him.
Dixie Davis gives Lola an approving nod. The two girls share the room next to mine. They’re both from Biloxi, Mississippi, and were already best friends before they came to Kingmakers.
“Correct,” Professor Penmark says. “And also incorrect.”
Lola’s smirk of satisfaction fades away as quickly as it arose. She scowls at the professor, as confused as everyone else in the room.
“Try again,” the professor says, enjoying our discomfort.
“Vague details?” Charlotte King ventures.
“Stuttering?” Jacob Weiss says.
Professor Penmark’s flat stare gives nothing away. I would never know if he were lying or being truthful. The only thing I can tell about this man is that he enjoys inflicting pain. Which is why I’m sure he was a very effective debt collector for the Las Vegas mob. You can’t get money from a dead man. But you can make a man wish he were dead . . .
“Subjects can display a lack or an excess of any particular behavior when lying,” the professor informs us. “They may sit still to avoid physical tells. Or they may squirm under your gaze. They may babble and include far too many details in their fictional narrative. Or they might speak in sentence fragments and fail to provide details when pressed. You cannot determine whether a subject is truthful or deceptive unless you first establish a baseline. Which is why you must ask questions to which you already know the answer, then observe the subject’s responses when they answer correctly, as well as when they obfuscate.”
I scribble away in my notebook, trying to capture every tip. I understood what the professor said, but it’s much easier said than done. Especially in real life, without time to think or plan.
“I need two volunteers,” Professor Penmark says.
No one raises their hand. When Professor Penmark asks for a volunteer, nothing pleasant ever follows.
“Lola,” the professor smiles, baring his crowded teeth. “Why don’t you come to the front of the class.”
Lola rises from her chair, wary but determined not to show a hint of nerves. She marches to the front of the room, her plaid skirt swishing around her long, shapely legs. Carter Ross gives a wolf whistle and Lola smiles as she spins to face us, making the skirt flare out almost high enough to show her underwear before it settles in place once more.
“Who else . . .” Professor Penmark muses, looking over each of us in turn, enjoying the way most of the students refuse to meet his eyes. I can’t tell whether I’d be better served to avoid him or boldly stare back. I go for the latter.
“Cat!” the professor barks. “Front of the class.”
Wrong choice.
I slip out of my seat, stumbling over my own feet before hurrying up to join Lola. Nobody whistles for me. A couple of students snicker until Rakel turns around and glares them into silence.
Lola faces me, knowing we’ll probably have to compete in some way. She’s smiling, pleased that she’ll only have to beat me, and not somebody intimidating.
Lola is intimidating. Her big blue eyes and soft southern accent don’t fool me for a second. She’s a killer.