Last to Die by Tess Gerritsen Page B

Duplessis, who teaches literature. Our botany professor, David Pasquantonio. And this is Dr. Anna Welliver, our school psychologist.” He gestured to the smiling, big-boned woman to his right. In her early sixties, with silver hair springing out in a cheerfully undisciplined mane, Dr. Welliver looked like an aging hippie in her high-necked granny dress.
    “Please, Dr. Isles,” said Gottfried, pointing to the coffee carafe and the tray of croissants and jams. “Help yourself.”
    As Maura took a seat beside Headmaster Baum, Lily placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of her. The croissants looked buttery and tempting, but Maura took only a sip of coffee and focused on Sansone, who faced her from the far end of the table.
    “You have questions about our school and our students,” he said. “These are the people who have the answers.” He nodded to his associates around the table. “Please, let’s hear your concerns, Maura.”
    His uncharacteristic formality unsettled her; so did this setting, surrounded by oddities in cabinets, and by people she scarcely knew.
    She answered him with equal formality. “I don’t believe Evensong is the right school for Julian.”
    Gottfried raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Has he told you he’s unhappy, Dr. Isles?”
    “No.”
    “Do you think he’s unhappy?”
    She paused. “No.”
    “Then what is the nature of your concern?”
    “Julian has been telling me about his classmates. He says that a number of them have lost family members to violence. Is this true?”
    Gottfried nodded. “For many of our students.”
    “Many? Or most?”
    He gave a conciliatory shrug. “Most.”
    “So this is a school for victims.”
    “Oh dear, not victims,” Dr. Welliver said. “We like to think of them as
survivors
. They come to us with special needs. And we know exactly how to help them.”
    “Is that why you’re here, Dr. Welliver? To address their emotional needs?”
    Dr. Welliver gave her an indulgent smile. “Most schools have counselors.”
    “But they don’t keep therapists on staff.”
    “True.” The psychologist looked around the table at her colleagues. “We’re proud to say we’re unique that way.”
    “Unique because you specialize in traumatized children.” She looked around the table. “In fact, you recruit them.”
    “Maura,” said Sansone, “child protective agencies around the country send children to us because we offer what other schools can’t. A sense of safety. A sense of order.”
    “And a sense of purpose? Is that what you’re really trying to instill?” She looked around the table at the six faces watching her. “You’re all members of the Mephisto Society. Aren’t you?”
    “Maybe we could try to stay on topic?” suggested Dr. Welliver. “And focus on what we do here at Evensong.”
    “I am talking about Evensong. About how you’re using this school to recruit soldiers for your organization’s paranoid mission.”
    “Paranoid?” Dr. Welliver gave a surprised laugh. “That’s hardly a diagnosis I’d make of anyone in this room.”
    “The Mephisto Society believes that evil is real. You believe that humanity itself is under attack, and your mission is to defend it.”
    “Is
that
what you think we’re doing here? Training demon hunters?” Welliver shook her head in amusement. “Trust me, our role is hardly metaphysical. We help children recover from violence and tragedy. We give them structure, safety, and a superb education. We prepare them for university or whatever their goals may be. You visited Professor Pasquantonio’s class yesterday. You saw how engaged the students are, even with a subject like botany.”
    “He was showing them poisonous plants.”
    “And that’s precisely why they were interested,” said Pasquantonio.
    “Because the subtext was murder? Which plants can be used to kill?”
    “That’s your interpretation. Others would call it a class on safety. How to recognize and avoid what could harm