Page 4 of See Me After Class

My retort came swift and harsh. "I was led to believe it was just a routine process." I clenched and unclenched my hands involuntarily.

His nod was heavy. "True, but it appears new evidence has surfaced. I suggest you sit."

Rooted to the spot, I stood rigid before Oswald's desk, my voice barely above a whisper. "No need. What's the new development?"

A voice, identifiable by its raucous harshness, spoke in the recesses of my mind. Whenever the demons came calling, it was always this voice."You already know, you pathetic waste of space."

An unseasonable trickle of sweat ran down my forehead. No. It could not be.Everyoneloved Oswald.

His reluctant sigh was as ominous as a death knell. My breath hitched.

"I'm sorry, Dessie." His mouth pressed into a grim line. "I wish I could tell you something different from what I'm about to say. Oswald was murdered."

2

Dessie

There has to be another explanation.

An hour had passed since Uncle Cuthbert had left, following a profuse series of apologies via which he'd tried to tell me he was sorry about everything.

But no matter how hard I examined the papers on Oswald's desk or how desperately I racked my brains trying to figure out why someone could possibly have the motive of killing him, I could not figure it out.

It felt like a personal failure. I was better than this. I'd spent years priding myself as the sixth member of The Famous Five. For context, growing up on a hearty dose of Enid Blyton had been the only way to stay sane as I bounced around two orphanages, three foster homes, and five schools.

At the age of fifteen, my mind was made up. I'd become a psychologist, or I'd die trying. I didn't know where to begin, but Oswald's email address about youth training programs on a website had been providential.

I've been between homes and schools,I wrote.I'm getting along, but I don't want to be fifty and still stocking boxes at Walmart. My grades suck right now, but I need something real where I'm helping others. Is there any hope for me?

The next thing I knew, Oswald was standing at the doorstep of my final foster home with a twinkle in his cerulean eyes and a telling smile. The adoption process was a year-long affair, but he stuck it through. I'd asked him why later.

"Because I see great potential in you. I'm sixty years old, Dessie. I've given most of my life to my profession, built an Institute from scratch, and now, I want to sit back and watch someone capable tend to all of it with the same love I did. You're my living legacy."

The back of my throat felt raw, like someone with long nails had reached inside and scratched it until it was bloodied. "How will I keep up with your mind, Dad?" I'd asked him. This was back when I was just getting comfortable calling him my father. It didn't take a lot of time. In the first six months after adoption, Oswald gave me more love than I'd had for the last fifteen years.

"I know a good one when I see them," he'd replied, a faint chuckle punctuating his words.

Any insecurity I'd ever had vanished because of that love, the mere largesse of it enough to make me strive ten times harder to be worthy of being his daughter.

I'd done well for myself, to the point of graduating from UPenn and becoming a child psychologist in Maine. I had my own apartment in Newhaven. While it wasn't of the same stature as Oswald's home, it was enough. I'd earned every last cent I put into buying the place and furnishing it, and Oswald's pride in my achievements made everything much better.

My eyes fell on the faded keychain neatly stored on one end of Oswald's desk. It was the first gift I ever got him, from the firstpocket money anyone ever gave me. I traced my index finger over the legend.World's Best Dad.

How could he be gone? How could someonewanthim gone?

My eyes blurred once again. I tried to recenter my thoughts by focusing on the desk. The surface was awash with brick-a-brack, weathered by time and speckled with tiny nicks and scratches from countless years of use.

On one side was a disarray of clinical paperwork, neatly stacked patient files, and sheaves of cutting-edge research papers, their edges curling slightly. Medical journals lay open to color-saturated pages that flashed the latest breakthroughs in bold lettering.

Nestled among them were conference badges and seminar schedules.

Nearby was a scattering of sticky notes, every square inch filled with hastily scrawled reminders and hypotheses in his tight, rushed handwriting, the blue ink contrasting sharply with the neon backgrounds.

To the side, a set of gleaming surgical tools sat in a sterilized case, their sharp silhouettes catching the soft glow of the desk lamp. Beside it rested a pile of scientific textbooks, worn and well-loved. The titles ranged from genetic engineering to advanced neurosurgery.

A multitude of photographs were spread across the desk, their frames as varied as their contents. Some depicted smiling colleagues and esteemed mentors, others the faces of the hundred-odd students he had mentored over the years, barring the sparrow he took under his wing.

At the edge of the desk was a faded coffee mug, stained with the ring of faded brews. Amid the flurry of intellectual chaos, a carefully tended Bonsai tree provided a rare note of tranquility, its verdant leaves a stark contrast to the beige walls of the study.

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