“We’ll soon find out,” he said. “I’ve already ordered it to be tested and examined carefully to ensure it’s still safe.”
“Who did it?” my mother pressed, her composure razor-sharp.
My father hesitated, his eyes flicking to me for a brief moment before returning to my mother. “We’re confirming the identity, but we believe it was Dr. Brianna McIntyre.”
For a moment, my mind refused to process the name. Then it hit me. Dr. McIntyre—the substitute occupational therapist I’d been working with for the past few weeks.
The same woman I’d overheard on the phone the other day, complaining bitterly about the “spoiled children of Alphas.”
“Why would she do such a thing?” I asked, confusion twisting in my chest.
“I don’t know,” my father said grimly. “But when we catch her, I’l
