There were all these varying versions of herself that wanted to jump to the helm. The Phoebe who kept peace among adults, whose instinct was to match her mother’s calm tone. The Phoebe no one would ever suspect of being a Communist assassin, tempted to play the fool and act as though she didn’t know what her mother was doing here. Somewhere, dark and deep within, there was also the feral girl stupid enough to play Priest, and she wanted to reach for a gun.
