Marina slumped forward and buried her face in her knees.

Shoving her bifocals up the bridge of her nose, Mary Helen assessed the situation. Anne was busy with Luis, Eileen with Marina. That leaves only you, old girl, she reasoned. “I’ll go inside and see to the progress,” she said. Squaring her shoulders, the old nun breathed deeply and plodded through the front door into the black foyer.

“We’ll be there in a minute,” Eileen called after her.

Turning right, Mary Helen felt along the wall for the light switch, with no success. A light switch, like a policeman, was never around when you needed one. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness.

Slots of moonlight filtered into the foyer and illuminated the curved staircase leading to the second floor. “The moon is a ghostly galleon, tossed upon cloudy seas” came to her crazily, as she edged her way up the marble steps toward the professor’s office. One of the heavy tapestries on the stairwell hung slightly askew, but everything else looked normal. Not even one Carrara bust had moved on its pedestal. Each stared blankly ahead.

Rounding the corner, Mary Helen caught a slight movement in the upper hall. A shadow, maybe. She stopped. Blinked. Peered into the blackness. Nothing. Gripping the bannister, she steadied herself. She could feel her heart pounding. “Anyone there?” Her question reverberated through the empty building. Silence.

“Are you all right?” Sister Eileen’s muffled voice floated in from the front steps.

Mary Helen took a deep breath. “Fine,” she shouted back, hoping she meant it. It’s just the wind, she assured herself, relaxing her grip. “The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.” Deliberately, she marched up the remaining steps to the second floor.

Across the dark hallway, a beam of light came from room 203. Funny we didn’t notice it from outside, Mary Helen thought, pausing in front of the open door. Cautiously, she peeked in. The outer office was in darkness. A second door, the one to the professor’s inner office, was slightly ajar. She craned her neck. The light was coming from the desk lamp. Like a beacon, it spotlighted the toes of two impeccably polished shoes. Mary Helen’s mouth felt oddly dry and parched, strangling the gasp in her throat. Professor Villanueva lay sprawled beside his desk.