Page 6 of See Me After Class

I tried to understand the words she had left unsaid. "You're saying someone was obsessed with him?"

Outside, a barn owl hooted, low and slow. The nocturnal refrain, drawn out and languorous, hung heavily in the midnight air.

"I'm saying it's a possibility. You need to review his files and see if you can come up with anything, okay?"

"Understood," I murmured, my voice just above a whisper, before ending the call. I set the phone down, pressing the heels of my hands into my tired eyes, a futile attempt to stave off the gnawing fatigue.

The mirror on the far wall of the study reflected a gaunt specter of my usual self. My skin was washed out, adopting a spectral pallor that seemed to drink in the dim light. My lips were stark and unnaturally red, stark against my ghostly complexion, while my eyes, wide and searching, dominated my face.

With a heavy sigh, I pushed away and focused on Oswald's desk. Night was spreading its ebony quilt over half the world, lulling it into slumber while stirring the other half into the chaos of a new day.

But for me, the concept of rest seemed a distant luxury.

Paper after paper, I scanned each ink-filled line, each cryptic formula, each hurried note, desperate to find some semblance of understanding. Just as dawn began to paint the sky with streaks of pink, slicing through the velvety blanket of darkness, my frantic search bore fruit.

There, among the sea of research notes, was an unassuming scrap of paper, its ordinariness deceptive. Three names were etched in Oswald's familiar scrawl, and a single word that entirely altered their implications.

John Galbraith.

Viktor Magnusson.

Leon Vincenzo.

A ripple of recognition fluttered at the edge of my memory. Yanking my phone from the depths of my cavernous black coat, I swiftly typed in the first name.

John Galbraith was the Director of Psychiatry at the Oswald F. Gardner Institute of Medical Research. My pulse quickened.

Next, Viktor Magnusson, a distinguished senior researcher in the Oncology department.

And Leon Vincenzo, a highly-respected surgeon.

All three of them were nestled within the confines of the sprawling manor that housed Oswald's life's work. All three men he would have known intimately, possibly even personally recruited.

What possible purpose could there be for their names to be tucked away on a seemingly inconsequential piece of standard A4 paper with just one quantifying word?

Unless...

Unless Oswald had uncovered something about these men. Something damaging.

Was it possible that this was a roster of suspects? Accusations of malpractice, financial misconduct, maybe fraudulent credentials?

"Murky waters hide secrets," I muttered, tracing the one word under the three names.

Motives?It read, with a single question mark.

It boded well for me that there were likely only fifty people in the whole world who knew what Oswald Gardner's adopted daughter looked like, and they were the only ones who had attended his funeral. Close family and loyal servants.

I had never set foot in the Institute, nor knew the people who worked there.

When Ms. Wainwright had relayed the shattering news of Oswald's passing, I had been on the precipice of making myacquaintance with the Institute. But fate had other plans. By the time I was able to depart from my retreat in Maine, Oswald's body had been moved.

Now, as I reflected on it, I acknowledged this delay as a strange act of grace. The plan quietly taking shape in the corners of my mind required me to be a woman unlinked, unbound, and utterly detached from Oswald Gardner.

I looked up at the mirror again, but this time, a sense of purpose rested in the shadowy corners of my eyes. I would find my father's killers and pay them in kind.

The face reflected back at me bared her teeth.

Under the weak glow of a single table lamp, I stared at my phone. Only one man could help me get the wheels moving.

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