Page 57 of Grave Matter

Her posture stiffens. “Wes said what?” she asks in a clipped voice.

“That he was originally your neurosurgeon.”

Her eyes narrow for a second before her expression relaxes. “He was. He still is, though Michael has taken over his role. Wes cares very much about saving people, whichever way he can do it.”

Ah, so Michael happens to be a neurosurgeon as well. I would not let that man anywhere near my brain.

“So the studies have only been done on animals?”

“Not quite,” she says.

Her secrecy is starting to grate on me.

“You know, the reason I wanted to study here was because of what your interviews and press releases had promised. Alzheimer’s is dear to my heart—that’s the whole reason I’m here. My grandmother died from it.”

“I know.” She nods, her eyes soft. “Sometimes I forget you…”

She trails off.

“Forget I what?”

“Forget that you’ve been through so much.” She sighs, shaking her head in sympathy. “Too much. It’s too much for one person, Syd.”

Her attention is making me uneasy. “I turned out fine,” I joke.

She doesn’t laugh though. Her eyes narrow as she stares at me. “I wouldn’t say that.”

I bristle, feeling the sting.

“I turned out okay,” I clarify.

Her lips purse as she considers that, her demeanor changing. “Yeah. You turned out okay. Considering, you know. Everything. You could be better though.” She reaches out with her fawn-colored gel nails and brushes a strand of hair off my face. “Maybe you just need more time. Need to grow older. Need to learn. I forget that you’re still just a grad student.”

Justa grad student?

“Technically, not anymore,” I mutter.

“Of course. I tell you what,” she says after a moment. “You continue to do well and prove yourself, and then I’ll let you in on the ground floor. Find your purpose at Madrona. Find something that excites you. Figure out how to be useful. Use that hyperfocus of yours and narrow in on something worthwhile. Surprise me.”

Hyperfocus. That reminds me I haven’t taken my Adderall for at least ten days now.

“If I prove myself, then will you actually let me in, actually let me see what you’re doing here?”

“I promise,” she says, then reaches over and flicks off the lights, plunging us into darkness except for the green and blue glowing lights of the various machines.

This time, I’m on my stomach.

Completely naked, my breasts pressed against the table in Kincaid’s boat.

My hands are fastened together behind my back. I can tell it’s rope; the fibers are cutting into my skin, tied painfully tight, just the way I like it.

I look up, expecting to see the painting of the eagle on the wall.

Instead, it’s a painting of a grave, mushrooms growing on top of it.

Something under the soil is moving, unearthing.

Something in the painting is real and being born.

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