The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 382

Garrison set the glass back on the coffee table, the clink echoing sharply in the quiet room. He frowned slightly, looking at Wyatt.

"Do you have a suspect?"

Wyatt didn't answer right away.

He reached back into the inner pocket of his jacket, felt around for a moment, and pulled out a single photograph. He tossed it onto the table and slid it over to Garrison.

Under the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights, the face in the photo looked stark and stiff.

It was a man in his fifties, wearing a charcoal gray suit and gold-rimmed glasses, his hair combed impeccably. He had the kind of face that naturally put people at ease—gentle eyes, a subtle smile, and the quiet, empathetic aura of a lifelong academic. The photo was taken at a podium in a conference room; his right hand was slightly raised, as if delivering a calm, measured speech.

Garrison instantly recognized the face. Lawrence Sterling.

"You're accusing Professor Sterling?"

Wyatt gave a slow, cautious nod. "Five years ago, he was the one who signed off on David Lancaster's security clearance. The current Secretary of the Department of Health, Honorary Chancellor of Riverdale University, and your former mentor."

Garrison fell silent for several seconds. He picked up the photo, his thumb brushing lightly across the familiar face, before setting it gently back on the table. He handled it as if he were afraid of breaking it.

"Impossible."

He chuckled, shaking his head.

"I studied under him for eight years." He looked up, staring directly into Wyatt's eyes. "I worked with him from my very first day of undergrad all the way through my Ph.D. Nobody knows his character better than I do."

"People can hide who they really are..."

"I am absolutely certain," Garrison cut in, his tone leaving no room for debate, "he is not that kind of man."

"Fine."

*

Sloane carried her cello back to her room, carefully propped it up next to the nightstand, and sat on the edge of the bed.

Her heart was still racing, her palms slick with sweat. Her damp fingerprints lingered on the neck of the cello.

She stared at the closed door, the image from the office replaying in her mind on an endless loop—

Garrison leaning back in his chair, hugging her white sweater, his arms crossed over it, fingers curled in sleep.

It was far too natural, as if it was something he did every single night!