Page 21 of Grave Matter

I rap on his door.

“Come in,” comes his now familiar voice.

I turn the handle and step inside. His office is dark, venetian blinds over the windows that are half-shuttered. Bookshelves crammed with books line all the walls, along with several diplomas, and artifacts that seem to be collected from a bunch of cultures: a lacquered vase, a broken pot, a small Peruvian statue. It smells good, like santal, and I spot an incense holder on one shelf, as well as various candles.

He’s standing at his desk, staring at something white and square in his hands that he quickly slips into his pocket before he takes his seat and finally meets my eyes.

“Please, come in. Sit down,” he says, gesturing to the empty chair on the other side of the desk.

I walk across the room, my shoes squeaking on the hardwood, feeling self-conscious. The worn leather creaks as I sit down in the chair.

He folds his hands over the desk, and I take note of his attire today, a grey button-up under a dark vest. He looks every bit the psychologist today, including his eyes, which are flicking over my body and face as if searching for something.

Unfortunately, his professional attire doesn’t make him any less sexy.

He clears his throat. “How are you?”

I shrug. “Can’t complain.”

His dark brow arches up. “Well, that is good to know. Before we start, I should tell you that I’m videotaping this session.” He points at a small web camera on the windowsill behind him.

“Don’t you need my permission for that?” I ask, my body stiffening, hating the idea of being on film.

His smile is stiff. “Not here, I don’t. You conceded to that in your NDA.”

“Do you have a copy of the NDA so I can double-check?” I ask grumpily. “Doesn’t seem fair that I have no computer access to check what I signed.”

“How about we get to that later. I only have an hour with you a week, and I want to make it worth my while.”

I sit back in my chair, my hackles up. It doesn’t matter how handsome he is, I’m going to be as stubborn as humanely possible for the next hour. Which, of course, isn’t easy when I have a tendency to blab about everything, especially when the subject isme.

“Tell me, Ms. Denik,” Kincaid says in his smooth voice. “Have you been sleeping well?”

“You would know,” I answer. “You’re the one who keeps standing outside my room at night.”

He splays his hands in innocence. “Merely my evening walk.”

“Right. Bear patrol.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Yes. Someone has to keep you safe.”

“How long have you been working here?” I ask, looking around the room. “This place seems very lived-in. I like it.”

“Five years,” he says. “But we aren’t here to talk about me.”

“That’s a shame. You’re far more interesting than I am.”

A flash of something in his eyes, intense and unreadable. “That’s not true. You know it too. You know you’re special, Sydney.”

I roll my eyes. “Everyone wants to believe that.”

“But it’s true. That’s why you’re here. Do you know how many applicants we get each year? Thousands. Aspiring neuroscientists, biologists, geneticists—everyone wants in, but only those who are special enough, like you, are accepted. You have proven your worth. Tell me about how you discovered the dark fungus.”

“I had heard about dark fungi and saw Dr. Nilsson’s most wanted list on a website. I was already interested in DNA sequencing and molecular data and decided to apply it to the list. The idea that there are millions of unclassified fungi out there that we can’t really see, in the land, the sea, the air, all this DNA that we can isolate but can’t attribute to any known organism…it’s fascinating.”

Normally, when I’m talking about dark fungi, I get really passionate and animated, so I’m surprised I’m playing it so cool.

“So you followed your curiosity.”

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