Pivot Point (Pivot Point, #1)(42)

I must’ve gasped as well, because Laila says, “What?”

“A Mood Controller.”

“What? The ones who work the football games? I’m pretty sure they only influence the crowd.”

“No. Not someone on the staff. Someone on the football team.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because Trevor said right before the injury, he was off guard, relaxed. Someone soothed him on purpose, got his defenses down.”

“You think?”

“I don’t know. I’m just trying to make sense of it all. Are there any Mood Controllers on the football team?”

“I don’t know. I just assumed all the guys on the team were Telekinetics.”

“So did I, but they must not all be. How can we find out?”

“I guess I can ask.”

I’m touched that she’d do that for me when I know how much she hates asking people what their abilities are. There has to be a way we can find out without her having to ask every member of the football team his ability (although that might be the only perk for her). I think about it for a moment. “The school has to have a record of it. I mean, when we registered they recorded our claimed abilities. There’s got to be a master list or something.”

“School office, then?”

“Kalan,” we both say together. She works in the front office. She could probably get her hands on a list like that.

“I’m on it,” Laila says.

“I just feel terrible for Trevor.”

“He could’ve gotten that kind of injury whether someone was using an ability or not. Football is a contact sport, Addie.”

“Yeah, I know.” And for now I need to cling to the idea that it was all just an accident blown out of proportion by Rowan’s overactive imagination.

I’m now standing by the TV, holding my dad’s DVD. It must be calling to me. It’s the third time inside a week that I’ve picked it up just to stare at it.

“Hey, I gotta go. I’m on my way to the football game,” she says.

“I swear that’s the only thing you ever say anymore. Are you crushing on some football player? The quarterback? What’s his name?”

“You’re kidding, right? You honestly forgot his name?”

“It just slipped my mind.” I search my memory. “Oh, Duke! Jeez, I thought I was going crazy for a minute there.” I haven’t been gone that long, and yet it already feels like I’ve let a portion of my old life go. This new life fits comfortably.

“Forgetting Duke is the equivalent of losing your mind.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, whatever. Well, have fun staring at boys smashing into each other.”

“Believe me, I will.”

I hang up the phone and look at the DVD in my hand. Before I talk myself out of it again, I open the case and put it in the player. “Sorry, Dad,” I whisper as I sit on the couch to listen to the interview.

The screen starts off blue, and then a shot of a Bureau employee and his name card—too small to read, clipped to his dress-shirt pocket—comes into view.

He clears his throat. “The following is an interview of Steve Paxton, brought in as a suspect in the Freburg murder—first murder in the Compound in”—he consults his tablet—“seven years, four months. Recommended course of action upon positive Discernment results: brain scan, incarceration with rehabilitation program.”

My heart is pumping fast. A murder in the Compound was rare and always solved. The video cuts out for a moment, and when it comes back the same wiry guy my dad had been watching the other night sits at a metal table.

“Mr. Paxton, state your full name for the record.”

He runs a hand through his greasy hair. “Poison.”

“Your real name,” the voice behind the camera says.

“Steve Paxton, but you can call me Poison.”

“Mr. Paxton, where were you on the night of September sixth between the hours of eight and twelve p.m.?”

“I’m not sure. I’d have to consult my calendar.” His voice is sarcastic, like this is all a big joke.

“It was a Friday night, three weeks ago,” the voice says.

“Fridays I normally hang out at the club.”

“Alone?”

“No. I’m rarely alone.”

“Who can verify your whereabouts?”

“Anyone who saw me at the club.”

“Mr. Paxton. Were you with anyone that night?” The voice indicates its owner is losing his patience.

“I was with a club full of people.”

“Give me a name.”

“Whose name would you like?”

“Do you recognize this girl, Mr. Paxton? She’s sixteen.” The table in front of Poison lights up, and he looks down. As if I’m watching a movie I expect the camera angle to change so that I can see the image too, but it doesn’t. I’m stuck staring at the top of Poison’s greasy head as he looks at the picture on the table screen. I wonder if I know the girl he’s looking at. Freburg, he had said. Did I know any Freburgs? There are only three high schools in Jackson.

“No, never seen her before.”

“That’s funny.” A paper slides into view. “Her phone records indicate she called you at least twice a day for the last month.”