Author's note : The OC in this chapter is mine. It's all her fault I started writing this in the first place. Short chapter, couldn't find a way to expand on it. Scientific problems with chapter four, might be a while before I can upload... grrr...

Scene Three

In a mansion in Westchester, which doubled as a school for gifted teenagers, the school days had just begun its afternoon lessons. The place was relatively quiet, with the exception of a three-a-side basketball game going on in the grounds. Inside, a tall, lithe woman in her mid-twenties, with long blonde hair pulled back into a dense pony tail that reached to the small of her back, had just arrived home. She was walking down the corridor to her father's study, moving with a predatory grace that stated her claim on this territory.

She tapped at the large, dark wood door, and then entered without waiting for a response. Her father, dressed in a smart black suit with a crisp white shirt and wine-red tie, was sat as ever in his wheelchair, positioned next to the large fireplace in which a small fire burnt low, for ambiance rather than warmth. As if he had been expecting her, there was a mug of black coffee waiting on a side-table next to his daughter's usual leather backed armchair on the opposite side of the fireplace.

Nothing passed between them except a cursory kiss on the cheek from daughter to father. She sat in the chair and sipped at her coffee, appreciating the warm hit of the coffee after a cold morning spent in the open. The man relaxed in his chair, obviously content to let her gather her thoughts before speaking. It wasn't easy to see the familial connection between these two individuals; she was taller than he, a more muscular frame due to their difference in lifestyles. Her blonde hair was soft and shiny, silken although its style suggested that not a lot of thought went in to her appearance, whilst he was bald. But as their eyes connected, that was where it showed, both had the same grey-blue eyes and piercing gaze that could see into the soul.

"Robert Kelly's death is no loss to society." The daughter threw out, apparently carelessly. "He will not be missed by his own or by our kind. Perhaps, at least, he will be at rest knowing that he and his son have gone to the same place... wherever that may be."

"He was a haunted man; that much is true."

"The detective in charge of the crime scene is a man haunted by death also." She looked pensive. Her father frowned at her. "I couldn't help it, he thinks that he keeps himself so locked up, but he shouts his losses so loudly there was no need to pry."

"I suppose we are all touched by death at some point in our lives, my dear, as you and I know only too well." He acknowledged her words without direct comment.

"I think we can trust him." She pushed her father's words away, and the hurt that went alongside them. Her father watched her body language along with her posture, right leg crossing over left, her fingers curling around the coffee mug square in front of her chest. "Of course, we don't have much choice right now with Cerebro out for the count. We need the technology at his disposal."

Her father nodded with a hint of regret. He wasn't used to being without his usual tools. But he trusted his daughter's instincts, in some ways more than he trusted his own, and he agreed that they would approach this Detective Taylor together to ask him for his help, and to offer him theirs.