Page 17 of See Me After Class

Oswald's soft features became rigid. "The future? Humans are the only living creatures that maim and kill for pleasure, Dessie. What good would it do to be around for ages and witness this at play?"

"But your profession," I'd replied slowly, "doesn't it make you naturally compassionate toward people?"

"Yes and no," he replied, removing his glasses in a swift, practiced motion. As he polished the lenses with a brisk swipe of his shirt, his eyes met mine with a directness that cut through the air. "I care about easing pain where I can. That's all," he added, the words crisp and final.

I padded toward him and placed a firm palm on his shoulder. "Don't, Oswald. Don't let the dark days win."

He looked up with a weariness that frightened me. While whimsical and at times just plain odd, Oswald had always appeared unbreakable. The man looking at me with tired gray eyes was not. "What if those are the only kind of days left, Dessie?"

The Present Day

Sunlight filteredthrough the towering windows of the Oswald F. Gardner Institute's junior staff room, painting the room in a mosaic of light and shadow. The rays dallied upon the polished wooden floor, stretching the shadows of the furniture into elongated, almost spectral forms.

Nestled in an armchair that bore the comfortable signs of age, I gazed out at the expansive view.

The Connecticut landscape unfolded before me. The yew alley, its dark green boughs forming a corridor of mystery, led the eye toward the rose garden. Here, Oswald's passion for nature's untamed beauty was evident. The roses, a fierce contrast of blood red against the purity of white, seemed almost absurd in their vibrancy.

In the distance, the greenhouse stood, its glass panes catching the sunlight in a play of reflections. Something about the way the light glinted off the glass made me frown. I shook my head and took another sip of the lukewarm coffee in my hand.

Making associations came with its perks. The floor matron had taken quite a liking to me, especially after I made my distaste for Leon and his attempts at flirting known. In fact, in the few hours I had spent at the institute, two things had become amply clear. One, I hated all men with the exception of Oswald. Two, something about this institute was very, very wrong.

I rubbed my eyes wearily and looked around the room. Leon's face had done a poor job of hiding his contempt when he came inside and looked at the minimal furnishings. But it suited me well. I wasn't here to be comfortable. I had a job, and it did not bode well to overstay my welcome or the lack thereof. Light played on the leaves outside, and I sighed and leaned back, pushing the chair into a gentle motion of ebb and flow.

Months ago, Oswald and I had a conversation that still lingered in the recesses of my mind. His words had stayed with me, surfacing in moments of solitude like now. Oswald was right. Humans are selfish pieces of shit. And that's why Oswald was gone before his time.

Why kill him, though? The question was like a permanent itch. The only way to know was to uncover more about theobvious suspects, which meant getting closer to them. The frown on my face deepened.

They were all insufferable in their own ways.

John Galbraith demanded respect on account of his seniority, but he didn't seem the type to give it back. He'd formed his opinion of me before I even materialized. That much was evident from the visible sneer on his face whenever he looked my way. At any rate, it was too soon to test him.

Viktor Magnusson was a house of cards. One push, and he'd collapse, but if I wasn't careful, he'd retreat into an impenetrable shell. He needed to be handled carefully.

Which left the easiest bait, Leon Vincenzo. I opened the website of the institute on my phone and looked dispassionately at his picture. He smiled shamelessly for the viewers, his academic and professional brilliance apparently enough to make up for the Casanova that he obviously was.

I stood up, and after an hour of restless pacing, perched on the edge of my single bed in the small room, my eyes glued to the entryway. What if my insults had been too much, and he wouldn't return?

"Well," I muttered to myself, "I can always hire a hooker, attach a wire to her, and get the job done. It'll save me the trouble of mounting him for information."

Even as I said the words, an unfamiliar wetness crept between my legs. I scowled heavily at the mirror, convincing myself that it was the sabbatical I'd taken from sex that was playing tricks on my mind. It had been a whole year, after all.

Filling the anxious silence, I pretended to read a book. My fingers were tense around the spine, but my eyes stayed pinned to the door. Hours ticked by, and my stomach grew tight with anticipation. Just when I was contemplating actually hiring a hooker, there was a polite tap on the door.

"Ha." Pushing back the relief in my tone, I strode over to the sparse wardrobe in my room.

The knocking was persistent.

"Just a minute," I called out, moving at a leisurely pace. I opened the wardrobe and fetched the white satin shirt I'd bought the same night I saw Leon's Facebook profile for the first time. I took my time, slipping out of what I wore and into what I needed to be in for this to work.

"Dessie?" The voice outside was growing impatient. "You ready yet?"

I stalked to the door and opened it slowly. Leon's mouth fell open as he looked at me.

"Patience," I purred at him, "is a big virtue."

I pulled him inside and shut the door behind us.

7

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