“Polite company should strive to give proper notice. If only to allow me time to make sure my underwear gets put up.” She fussed at her workstation. It wasn’t undergarments she made sure were hidden.

We fashioned a chair a discreet distance away to allow her the privacy of hiding whatever business had her so captivated. “I couldn’t take the crowds anymore. The smiling. Their grief on top of our own. We needed to go someplace…”

“Quiet. Where you could be you in peace. I got you. It’s one reason I retreated here. And I needed to distract myself.”

“What were you working on that had you so preoccupied? And secretive.”

“Noth—” she began from reflex. We cocked our head, wanting her to skip past the denial and deception phases of this dance.

“You can always tell us, ‘None of your business.’”

“Look, it may be nothing. I’m only investigating a hunch.” Amachi averted her gaze, with a near-childlike air about her, both anxious and proud. And something else. A darkness gilded her spirit.

“Okay…” We allowed our voice to trail. “We’re encouraged to trust our emi. And hunches.”

“I think Xola may have been murdered.”

The words hung in the air between us. More whispers and rumors from the conspiracists and paranoid. We’d about had our fill of this forced diet on top of our grief. The matter scraped at an unhealed scab on our heart. It was difficult enough to come to terms with Pops’s death, much less make room to entertain conspiracy theories.

“Amachi,” we began.

“I know, I know. I could practically hear your voice of reason ringing in my head from the moment I first collected a sample from Selamault.”

“What kind of sample?” We leaned forward, inhaling sharply to steady our breathing and allow her room to make her case.

“Sputum,” she said. “Relax. It had already been expelled.”

“Well, in that case, we won’t trip, then.” We eased back. “Doesn’t make it any less extreme, though.”

“Will you hear me out?” Her face implored us. Amachi had never been one for gratuitous leaps.

“Sure.” We twirled our hands her way for her to go on. “We suppose we owe you for not slicing our head off earlier.”

Amachi tilted her head at us, unsure if she was being baited into a trap. “I was suspicious that Xola’s death was no accident from the beginning.”

“Because an old man with a series of degenerative neurological disorders dying automatically should raise suspicions. You always were Maulana’s prized student.”

“I guess.” Amachi slumped in her seat. The light caught her. Grief warped her features, her face almost unrecognizable. Recent tear streaks. Haggard eyes. There was a story she needed to construct, to tell, to maybe even believe. One that would reach fruition only with the telling. “I just didn’t want to believe he was gone. I wanted there to be a reason. A cause.”