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PRIVILEGE LENDS itself well to Violet Korchak.
First off, it helps that she is white from skin to the bone to her self-assured gait when moving in a crowd. Coupled with the fact that her family had a surplus of oil wealth and generations upon generations of old money, aided by powerful lawyers at their disposal, she was untouchable. Plus, Violet's father is one of the head doctors in Forks' only hospital. The family finances are more than comfortable, as well as Violet's free reign to do whatever she wants. Including, but not limited to: escaping trial for property destruction, arson, attempted murder, and more charges the judge had read aloud to the courtroom as the words flew over Violet's head after she'd heard that Livvy's rapist was in the hospital awaiting skin grafts.
Still, even as she had her sentence read out to her, before her lawyers stepped in to extricate her from the precarious situation, she'd felt not an ounce of remorse. No guilt. Only that justice had been served. Only the iron voice in her head, the mean part of her brain drenched in rot and a seething darkness that'd evolved into insanity, spreading outward like an oil spill, cell-by-cell, inch-by-inch, stain-by-stain:
—HE GOT WHAT HE DESERVED. ASHES TO ASHES—
Effectively, that meant an expulsion from Verity Prep, and a phone call to her father which went a little something like this:
Protocol dictated her arrest and immediate captivity in custody of the LAPD at least until someone could get ahold of her father. They'd confiscated her skateboard, cellphone, the three switchblades and butterfly knife she never went anywhere without. None of which she'd been happy to part with, but gave up voluntarily, knowing that any more resistance would slow down her progress. With her cuffed hands lying in her lap, Violet waited in confinement, taking her time in studying the room they'd left her in with detached interest. It was like any other interrogation room. Squarish, dusty linoleum floor tiles, with a locked door on one side and a metal table with two chairs on either end, on elf which she occupied. Nothing special, unnervingly plain and boring. White walls sentenced her to staring at her own reflection in a large mirror—a one-way mirror, really—built into one of the walls. Stale air sifted in the silence, the smell of rust and bleach stung her nostrils.
They let her stew for an hour.
Throughout that hour, the subliminal worry that he might send her even further than California lingered. Worry that her plan to burn through as many private schools as possible, as many acts of rebellion as she could risk, would backfire. With the resources they were armed with, her father could do anything. Rationality and prior experience guaranteed that no school was forgiving enough to take back a criminal—especially one who'd been charged for arson and attempted murder, etcetera. Still, the paranoia persisted. But Violet Korchak was nothing if not her father's daughter. While Luka had her mother's soft touch and sensitive soul, Violet was every inch of her father, made of stone and storms and smiles made for war.
