My Uncle Locked Away My Roommate's Medical File When She Vanished — But When They Broke My Blind Cane, The Unsealed Safe Exposed The Supernatural Truth
Clara Kincaid moved with a terrifying precision I hadn’t seen from her before. She strode directly into the still-forming circle of students, past Julian Kincaid Jr., who stood frozen, silver ash clinging to his shoe.
Her hand shot out, swiping the heavy iron key from the wet cobblestones just before Arthur could lunge for it. The key, still gleaming, felt like an accusation in her grip.
Arthur’s face, usually composed, twisted. A muscle pulsed in his jaw.
“Arthur,” Clara’s voice cut through the stunned silence. Her eyes, usually tired, were sharp, focused. “We are going to your office. Now.”
She didn’t wait for a response. She turned and began walking, her gaze flicking to the broken cane at my feet. I maintained my facade, keeping my eyes unfocused, a slight tremor in my hand as I reached for the shattered pieces. My heart hammered against my ribs, not from fear, but from the adrenaline of the moment. This was it.
“Maya, dear,” Arthur said, his voice strained. “Are you alright? Let me help you.”
He reached for my arm, but Clara’s voice stopped him cold. “Leave her. The staff can attend to Maya. You have urgent matters, Arthur.”
She looked pointedly at the key in her hand, then toward the East Wing. Arthur flinched. The East Wing. Not the administration building, but the older, less-used part of the academy, where the principal’s private residence and a few ceremonial rooms were located. It was a detail only someone intimately familiar with the Gable family’s layout would know.
I felt a surge of triumph, carefully hidden behind my blank expression. Clara, it seemed, knew more than I’d suspected.
As a staff member gently helped me to my feet, guiding my hand to the rail, I subtly nudged Clara in the right direction with a fractional shift of my body, feigning uncertainty in my blind stride. She caught the cue, her head inclining almost imperceptibly. We moved as one, a silent conspiracy unfolding amidst the chaos of the quad.
The marble floors of the East Wing hall were cold beneath my thin shoes. The air here was always heavier, smelling of old wood and something metallic, like rain on iron. We reached Arthur’s private study, a room rarely visited by students. It was opulent, heavy with dark mahogany, leather-bound books, and portraits of stern-faced Gable ancestors.
Arthur rushed past us, his movements frantic. He moved to a large family portrait on the wall, a depiction of a severe-looking man from the late 1800s. He pushed it aside with a desperate heave.
Behind the portrait, a heavy, iron-bound safe was recessed into the stone wall. It wasn’t a sleek, modern security box. This was a relic, its surface dull and ancient.
“Clara, this is hardly the place for this,” Arthur pleaded, his voice a hoarse whisper. His face was indeed ashen, precisely as the outline had described it. He looked like he’d seen a ghost, which, I thought, was ironic.
Clara ignored him. Her fingers, steady and deliberate, traced the grooves of the ornate lock. She slid the key in. A soft, metallic *click* echoed in the quiet room, sounding unnaturally loud.
The safe door, thick and heavy, swung inward with a low groan. My breath caught. I had imagined legal papers, mundane documents. But this safe was different. Its interior wasn’t filled with neat folders. Instead, the small compartment was lined with what looked like sheets of lead. The air emanating from it felt unnaturally still, cold, as if it contained something that shouldn’t interact with the outside world. This was no ordinary strongbox for transfer files. It was built to contain something… else. Something dangerous.
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