envelope.
“Read your objective. Don’t show your opponent,” he says.
I crack my envelope, then scan the card within. The single sentence reads: Find out if their father has ever been in prison.
How in the hell am I supposed to figure that out in a subtle way?
“Each of you has a piece of information you must extract from your subject,” Professor Penmark says. “You must answer your opponent’s questions, but you are allowed to lie if you wish. When you think you’ve captured the intelligence, raise your hand.”
Lola purses her full pink lips as she reads her own card. She looks up at me, smiling with anticipation.
I’m sweating.
From what I’ve learned so far in our Interrogation classes, the usual methods to get someone to disclose information are threats, appeals to conscience, and incentives. It will be hard for me to apply any of those techniques against Lola.
Despite rooming right next to each other, I don’t know much about her.
Only that she’s beautiful and knows it. She takes great care over her appearance, waves of caramel-colored hair laying over her shoulders, subtle gold jewelry, and the wardrobe of a Manhattan socialite. Even on the island, she’s somehow managed to procure a professional-level manicure.
It’s curious, too, that she embraces this look of doll-like femininity when the rest of the Dixie Mafia are a rough, countrified bunch, partial to filthy, ripped jeans, cowboy boots, and necklaces of gator teeth. This includes Lola’s right-hand woman Dixie Davis, who, with her wild mane of ginger-colored hair, freckles like paint spatters, and harsh voice, is as crass and unkempt as Lola is refined.
What I infer from this is that Lola cares very much about controlling how other people perceive her. She’s prideful and vain. Justifiably so, perhaps. But that may be her weak spot.
Is Lola’s objective the same as mine? Is she going to ask about my father? Maybe her question is completely different.
God, this is brain-bending. I can’t be sneaky in five different ways at once.
Should I start asking about her family? Is that too obvious?
What if she lies? Will I be able to tell?
“Don’t be nervous, Cat,” Lola says, giving me a smile that shows all her gleaming white teeth. “We’re just having a friendly conversation.”
“Right,” I murmur. “It should be fun.”
“You’re from Spain, aren’t you?” She says, resting a hand casually on her hip and cocking her head at me.
I’m already tensing up, thinking I shouldn’t answer any questions honestly. But Lola already knows the answer to that—and it wouldn’t be the objective on her card because it’s common knowledge.
“Yes,” I say, carefully. “I’m from Barcelona. And you’re from Biloxi.”
“That’s right,” Lola says, lightly.
I suppose we both have a baseline for honest answers now.
“Any siblings?” I ask her, hoping to ease around to the topic of parents.
“Just me,” Lola says, still smiling.
Now that one’s a little trickier. Lola certainly has the pampered look and confidence of an only child, but she’s not in the Heirs division. So either her father isn’t a boss, which would be strange considering her standing amongst the rest of the Dixie Mafia, or he has a different successor in mind—an uncle or older sibling of Lola.
Fuck, I don’t know which it is. I don’t think I’m very good at this.
“I know you have a sister,” Lola says, softly. “Zoe . . . she’s gorgeous, isn’t she? It’s hard to be the ugly sister.”
Carter Ross snickers from the front row of desks.
I can feel the dozens of eyes watching us, none more than Professor Penmark, who feeds off my discomfort and Lola’s malice like a psychic vampire.
The gloves are coming off—Lola took that shot at me to stoke my emotions. She wants me upset and incautious.
“I always thought Zoe was the prettiest girl at our school,” I reply, calmly.
It’s a subtler jab than Lola’s, and more effective. I’m used to being second to Zoe. Lola doesn’t want to be second to anyone. I see the slight narrowing of her eyes—she didn’t like that at all.
“Zoe ran off with Miles Griffin, didn’t she?” Lola persists. “That’s quite the upgrade from Rocco.”
My hands twitch involuntarily. I really don’t want Lola to pursue that line of questioning. Her card can’t possibly have something on it about Rocco Prince, can it?
Lola sees me flinch. She pounces like a cat on a mouse. “You aren’t jealous, are you? Zoe’s living the dream in L.A., and you don’t even have a boyfriend yet?”
There it is.
I think I know her objective.
“I’ve had plenty of boyfriends,” I lie.
Lola giggles,