Page 79 of See Me After Class

"As I was saying," she continued, her eyes momentarily closing as she spoke, "I appealed to him in the guise of someone who'd been tricked into doing this due to an abusive, controlling husband. He fell straight for that crap. Husband got jail time, but I escaped."

Her eyes gleamed, feline-like in their ferocity.

"Plus, Oswald saw potential in me. I was so young back then, two years past thirty. He promised he would do his best to aid me, but given the viciousness of the system, I had to give up everything. Everything I had. In the end, it worked out because I got what I needed. A home, stability, and a man I fell hopelessly in love with. I tried my best to make him see how good we had it."

So, there lay the truth of it. It wasn't Oswald who'd hidden her past, who'd orchestrated the adoption racket. It was her. The woman who'd poured me chamomile tea and tucked me into bed, the very woman who'd orchestrated my arrival at this doorstep.

"Oh, before I forget, you are very gullible." She smiled. "The whole estate belongs to Lila Monroe, who also happens to be my surviving daughter from my marriage. None of this is Oswald's. The pictures were also engineered by her. She's quite nifty, if you've noticed."

"It isn't possible," I gasped. "The Monroe twins were adopted."

Ms. Wainwright raised a brow, mocking me. "Oh, dear, sweet, stupid Dessie. Read between the lines, would you?"

"You…" My words felt like smoke. "You gave your own daughters away?"

"I didn't give them away," she spat, suddenly livid. "I created a better life for them so they could honor me when the time came. It is a reciprocal relationship, and if you were half the daughter Oswald wanted you to be, you'd do much, much better."

My gaze darted to the woman by the doorway, her face a mask of porcelain calmness. "Lila?" I asked, knowing full well that I was dealing with someone completely deranged. "Why would you do this? What would you gain from it?"

Lila's smile, brittle and cold, shattered the façade. "Why the surprise, Dessie? We all play our parts, don't we? Mine is just more… thrilling."

Lila stalked beside Ms. Wainwright, her voice laced with venom. "When Mother told me about you, she didn't know we had a… history. My last session with you, Doc, left me feeling distinctly underdressed. You can only imagine how pleased I was when I heard your days were limited."

A cold tendril snaked down my spine as her fragrance, a heady mix of lilies and something unsettling, enveloped me. "Underdressed?" I echoed, my voice barely a whisper.

"Excruciatingly," Lila hissed. "Your questions were scalpels, dissecting my carefully constructed reality. You saw through the cracks, Doc. You knew I let her die, chose fame over family. And guess what? It was glorious. My book wouldn't have touched the charts with that dead weight around my neck, understand?"

Lila's smile was glacial, her eyes glittering with a manic edge. The air crackled with unspoken accusations, a twisted dance of survivor's guilt and unapologetic ambition.

I felt sick. So, so sick.

"You and I are not all that different, my dear," Ms. Wainwright interjected. "Your obsession with Oswald, withfinding out what happened even though it won't bring him back…"

The air grew thick with a silence heavier than the dust motes swirling in the shafts of sunlight that speared through the cobwebbed windows.

Ms. Wainwright trailed off, admissions hanging heavily between us, then pivoted with a rustle of silk, her heels clicking a staccato rhythm on the creaking floorboards as she headed for the opposite corner.

The estate room was a cavernous space with a vaulted ceiling draped in cobwebs. It housed a mismatched collection of furniture—a plush chaise lounge drowning under a shroud of dust, a grand piano with yellowed keys, and a tarnished silver samovar perched on a table in the far corner.

Ms. Wainwright approached the samovar with a practiced grace. She lit a fire, the dancing flames casting grotesque shadows on the dusty walls. Each flick of her wrist, each tilt of her head, held a practiced elegance, a cold beauty that chilled me more than the draft seeping through the cracked windowpanes.

The scent of something bitter and metallic rose from the steaming water as she added herbs from a rusty tin. My mouth felt dry, my stomach twisting. The samovar, its silver dulled by neglect, glinted. I knew the drink was going to be the death of me. Literally.

"You don't have to do this," I whispered, trembling. "Please."

"What good is this life, Dessie?" she replied acridly. "No one wants or loves you. You know it yourself—you're nothing but damaged goods. Why not let me help you? Maybe you'll do better next time."

My wrists throbbed with the strain, the ropes biting into my skin like angry ants. Muscles burned, sweat clinging to my brow, but the knots held firm. Just as despair threatened to drown me,one of the ropes, the one binding my right wrist, inexplicably gave a tiny hitch, offering a whisper of slack.

I had to buy more time.

"Ms. Wainwright," I began, keeping my voice steady, "let me go, and no one needs to learn about you or your daughter. I'm not one to put my mouth where it doesn't belong."

Letitia, her eyes glinting morbidly, turned back to me. "But that's just what you are, my dear. You simply can't be allowed to live. Oswald loved you far too much, leaving you everything—millions, the Institute—while all I got was a pension fund and a tiny house."

Rage, hot and primal, surged through me, drowning out the fear. "You killed him because he loved me more? You think that justifies murder?"

Her smile was a twisted parody of pity. "Love, darling, is just a weapon in the right hands. And unfortunately for you, Dessie, your love is about to cost you your life."

---