Whispers of a Past || ON HOLD

Chapter 6: A Little Research

Boone, Iowa. January 14th: 6:23 P.M.....

  I type in the name "Agnes Alf" before quickly pressing the enter key to begin my google search. The screen flashes before a long row of headlines fills the screen up, most already looking like rubbish to me.

Using the mouse, I slowly move the screen downward as I look for any 'useful' information about our friend here. I stop on a headline dated back in 1925, something about it catching my attention.

"Agnes Alf, a Swedish professor of genetics, that was recruited by the US no more than twenty years ago, dies of a heart attack early Monday morning."

I purse my lips, scrolling through a few of his accomplishments listed under the short paragraph about his parting. Something about this guy just doesn't make sense. Maybe it's the fact the reporter makes him out to be a world renowned guy, yet hardly makes the effort to give him a good hunk of the paper when he dies. Then there's also the fact that, even though he's some "professor of genetics," which are highly sought after, I can't seem to find where he was working for the last twenty years despite the paragraph saying he was recruited by the US.

So for where, and what, did he work?

I glance up at Casey, who's irritably hovering over me as I bend over a computer, face hard and impassive despite his eyes that don't seem to have stopped moving since we got here.

We're now in the small town of Boone, Iowa. A good four hours away from Sewerd, my home. Stopping only once to grab something in the Wendy's drive thru, we'd managed to get here before seven o'clock. Just in time to do some quick research at the local library, probably head out a little ways, grab some supper, and find somewhere to sleep for the night before we head out again.

Ugh. The life of convicts on the run.

I frown, still hating that small fact and feeling yet another stab of resentment towards a certain icy blue-eyed, black-haired someone for getting me into this mess in the first place.

Focusing back on the computer, I click on an image on the bottom right. The screen once again goes dark before coming back up with the image of a grainy photo. A man in his late forties, sporting a small and neatly trimmed mustache and a white lab coat, stands behind a large table. Small glass test tubes and other things similar to that sit around on top of the tabletop, a clutter of objects only someone trained in that specific field could identify.

The man has an amused grin on his face as he stares off to the left of the photographer, almost like he's just finished telling a joke to someone. And though he's takes on the look of an average, if not more than ordinary, person with a lab coat, I get the sense that, behind his smiles and jokes, lies a burden like no other.

"Casey," I whisper to get hit attention, not taking my eyes from the screen. I instantly feel his attention zone in on the picture. His posture noticeably tenses, and I feel him lean down from beside me to get a closer look.

His arm brushes against my right shoulder as he places it on the back of my chair, a hint of pine needles and a freshly trimmed garden aroma filling my nose as his face lowers to a few mere inches next to mine.

Woah, Nora. Breathe. This is the guy you hate, remember?

"That's him." Casey mutters back, never moving his eyes from the photo as he seems to grow enthralled by it. I frown again, crossing my arms and trying to shift further away from him without it being too noticeable.

"And how would you know?" I throw my hand out. "Amnesia, ring a bell?" I have to remind myself to keep it down when one of the librarians tosses me a look from across the room. Ducking back behind the computer screen, I run my hand through my tangled hair.