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 pulled out a single, yellowed envelope from the lead-lined safe. It wasn’t a stack of crisp school transfer forms. It was old, brittle.
She carefully broke the seal, her movements deliberate. The silence in the office was thick, broken only by the distant, muffled sounds of a distant siren somewhere in town.
She unfolded the document, her eyes scanning the contents. Her brow furrowed, deepening the lines around her mouth.
“St. Jude’s Hospital,” she read aloud, her voice tight with surprise. “Dated… six months ago.”
My stomach clenched. Six months. The exact time Alice had vanished from Gable Academy.
“This isn’t a transfer document,” Clara continued, her voice gaining a dangerous edge. She glanced at Arthur, who stood rooted to the spot, his face a mask of utter defeat.
“This is Alice Holbrook’s medical record.”
My feigned blindness felt like a physical burden, trapping my true reactions. I wanted to scream, to demand answers. But I kept my expression carefully neutral, allowing only a slight tremor to show in my hands, a silent testament to the shock coursing through me.
Clara’s gaze snapped back to the paper. “Cause of death listed as… sudden cardiac arrest, precipitated by extreme hypothermia.” She paused, then read directly from the document. “‘Room temperature at time of discovery: zero degrees Fahrenheit. No external injuries consistent with foul play observed.'”
Zero degrees. Alice had been found frozen, inside a room. Not transferred, not run away. Dead.
My mind raced, trying to process this new information. Uncle Arthur hadn’t processed a school transfer, that was clear. He’d hidden her death certificate. But why?
“This report states,” Clara’s voice trembled slightly, “that Alice was found within the East Wing vaults, specifically… the sub-basement chamber.”
The sub-basement. That was even deeper, a part of the school I’d never heard mentioned. It made the metallic smell in the East Wing suddenly make sense.
I felt a cold dread settle over me, different from the initial anger. But still, the narrative in my head remained firm: Arthur and Julian Jr. must have killed her, somehow. The details about the cold, the specific room temperature, were just a clever way to mask the true violence. They murdered her, then staged it to look like some bizarre natural phenomenon.
Arthur, slumped against the wall, looked like he was about to collapse. “Clara, please,” he croaked, barely audible. “You don’t understand what you’re doing.”
Clara slammed the document onto Arthur’s mahogany desk, the sound sharp and final. “Oh, I understand, Arthur. I understand perfectly. You covered up the death of a student, and then you harassed your own niece when she dared to ask questions.”
She turned to me, her face softening slightly. “Maya, I am so sorry. For all of this.”
I remained motionless, a blind girl absorbing the shock. The words “cardiac arrest” and “zero degrees” echoed in my head, but they didn’t shake my conviction. My uncle and the Kincaids were tangled in this, hiding a terrible secret. They just had a more elaborate cover story than I’d anticipated.
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