Page 8 of See Me After Class

Dessie Davenport. I'd reviewed her resume and read enough of her work over the last few days to know she wasn't bad. She wasn't special, either. Securing a place here would have been impossible for someone so unremarkable if she hadn't come from money.

And that she did. Her reclusive but enormously endowed parents had left no stone unturned in ensuring their darling daughter had the best of everything served on a platinum platter. There wasn't too much about them on the Internet, meaning they preferred a reclusive life.

Pity, I couldn't say the same for the young woman who got out of the flashy car, her Louboutins crunching dry gravel as she strutted toward me. With practiced ease, I changed my sneer to a polite smile.

"Miss Davenport," I said, pushing the contempt out of my voice. "Welcome to the Oswald F. Gardner Institute. Did you have a good trip down?"

She nodded neutrally. "It was fine, thank you." She did not stop to shake my hand or ask for my help. Instead, she took a lingering look at the Institute before turning her back and returning to her car.

I watched, fascinated despite myself, as she pulled out her bags and suitcase, clad in those ridiculous heels, with absolute ease.

Self-sufficient for someone driving a Lamborghini. I almost smiled.

At least she didn't ask if anyone would take her bags and have them sent up to "her room". I'd been around enough rich peopleto believe the stereotypes. For a brief second, I considered helping her but decided against it.

She seemed the kind of woman who'd label me a male chauvinist pig for holding a door open or getting her luggage. She traveled light, too. Only one suitcase, I noted.

"Follow me, please," I said curtly, leading her into the grand hall. She matched her pace to mine, her face deadpan. Odd, I thought. Child psychiatrists were usually much more chipper, but this one was as grim as death and twice as pale.

She didn't even blink as I stopped and wheeled to face her. "You can leave your luggage there," I told her, pointing at an old oak refectory table flanking the left wall. "Let's finish your interview first."

She remained rooted to the spot. A second passed, then two. "Interview," she finally breathed, her lips curling. Somehow, she made her reply sound like an insult instead of a question. "I was told I already got the post?"

Whatever redeeming thoughts I'd had about her in the last few minutes vanished to be replaced by mounting distaste. "You did," I almost barked. "This is a mere formality."

She continued regarding me with her heavy-lidded gray eyes, the light in them almost reptile-like in their intensity.

The girl was all eyes and lips, her tiny head surrounded by a wild crop of raven hair she'd tamed with a single silver clasp. She was beautiful, I reluctantly admitted, if gothic chic was your thing. Unusual, too.

Get over yourself,the self-deprecating voice inside me snapped. I sighed. "Every new resident goes through the same process, Miss Davenport."

She waited a moment. "Very well. Thank you, Dr. Galbraith."

I watched as she weaved her way to the table, dropping her bags with an audible thud. A living silhouette, she carried herselfwith an undeniable elegance, her form mimicking that of a high-fashion model, angular and skeletal.

Her attire was, in contrast to her choice of transport, somber, devoid of flair or personality.

Our eyes locked, and for a moment, her hollow gaze met mine.

"Shall we?" The words fell flat as we climbed the stairs in silence.

I wondered how old her old money roots were. It was a concept I despised. I studied her, unresponsive to the grandeur of the dual staircases, the ornate oak detailing, and the oil-rich history gracing the walls. To her, it was nothing special.

It was all too apparent, the air of unaffected indifference, a posh education mirrored in her refined accent, and the sense of entitlement that came with owning estates instead of homes.

"Have a seat," I instructed as I ushered her to my office, striding past my rustic driftwood desk, a relic from my past life.

Her curiosity came alive within these walls, a visible interest piquing as her gaze swept across the packed bookshelves, a collection of worn textbooks and classic American literature.

She paid no attention to the ancient marble fireplace, focusing instead on the grand window offering a panoramic view of the picturesque valley beyond.

"Sit," I repeated, an edge of impatience creeping into my voice. Unfazed, she sank into the opposing chair.

"Thank you." Her words were polite yet empty, reminiscent of rehearsed childhood manners. As I flipped open her folder, I adopted a falsely cheery tone.

"So, what brings you to Stillingbrook?" I began. "It's a tranquil pocket of Connecticut. Not much excitement here."

"I started my practice in Newhaven, a far quieter segment of Maine," she retorted, each word delivered with sharp accuracy."If you read my file, you would know that I'm on the autism spectrum. Loud places unsettle me."

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