“Don’t you have a biochemistry test tomorrow?” Dr. Conlon raises an eyebrow.
“Uh, yes.”
Dr. Conlon looks over at Anita. “Any information on the cadavers in the lab is strictly confidential. Nobody is to receive that information.” He looks back up at me. “Is that clear?”
My stomach feels like lead.
“Yes,” I say. “It’s clear.”
Dr. Conlon is still staring at me in a way that is pretty terrifying. He knows I’m onto him—I can see it in his eyes. I’ve turned myself into a threat, and now he has to deal with me.
But I won’t go down without a fight.
68
I’ve been watchingDr. Conlon very carefully recently.
Right now, Abe and Heather are hunched over Frank’s split-open skull, reviewing the cranial nerves, while Sasha reads from the lab manual. I’m at the other end of the cadaver, flipping through the anatomy atlas, but my mind is somewhere else. Our second midterm in anatomy is in a few days, but I already know the material cold. That’s not my biggest worry anymore.
Dr. Conlon is dressed in blue scrubs, and he makes his usual rounds from cadaver to cadaver, gripping his cane in his left hand. His cane is cumbersome—made of dull metal and ending in four prongs arranged in a square formation. The fact that he relies on that cane makes him seem really impaired, and I have to wonder if that’s the idea. If he visited a store to find a cane that would enhance his story that he can’t walk very well and isn’t capable of harming a fly, that’s probably the cane he’d end up with.
See, I’m about ninety-five percent sure at this point that Dr. Conlon isn’t disabled at all.
For starters, if you watch him walk, it’s clear he’s faking—he alternates which leg he limps on. Sometimes, it’s his right,sometimes, his left. I’m pretty sure of that. And the pretense that his right hand isn’t functional is equally bullshit. In his short-sleeved scrub top, it’s clear that all the muscles in his right arm are intact. I admit, he holds his hand in a way that makes it look impaired, but if I bend my wrist as far as it will go and curl up my fingers, it doesn’t look so different from his hand.
Of course, I can’t prove anything. I followed Conlon out to his car a few times, hoping to catch him in the act—like, tossing his cane aside and walking without it. I had my phone ready to snap photos the second he did it. But he’s really dedicated to the illusion of appearing disabled or else he sensed someone was watching, and he never abandoned that cane. He’s even got handicapped plates on his car—not that those are hard to get. My father says half his cardiac patients have them.
“Dr. Conlon!” Sasha flags down our professor as he “limps” by our table.
Dr. Conlon stops and smiles at Sasha. Lately, everything about Dr. Conlon seems ominous to me, even his smile. “Yes, Dr. Zaleski?”
Sasha launches into a question about the circle of Willis, and my stomach clenches as I notice how close Dr. Conlon is standing to her. He needs to back up at least a foot, seriously. Sasha seems pleased by the attention, but she doesn’t get it. Dr. Conlon’s attention isnotsomething she wants. And Sasha is so small and sweet and vulnerable—and she wants so desperately to do well in anatomy. If Dr. Conlon offered her some drugs with the promise of a higher score on the next exam, would she be able to refuse?
If he touches a hair on Sasha’s head, I swear to God, I will kill him.
69
I didn’t even realizeI drifted to sleep until the ringing of my phone jogs me awake. I’m sitting up in bed, my laptop resting on my legs, still in the clothes I had been wearing last night. I recall a dream I had been having about Frank, although I can’t remember the details. I fumble for the phone and hold it to my ear.
“Hello?” I mumble.
“Mason? It’s Erin. Where are you?”
Erin… shit! I completely forgot we were supposed to get together for an early lunch today at a coffee shop that’s a five-minute drive from my dorm. I look at my watch and realize I’m fifteen minutes late.
“I’m sorry, I…” I try to come up with an excuse, and my mind goes blank. “I’ll be there in five minutes, okay?”
Erin reluctantly agrees, and I shove my feet into my shoes. No time to change clothes. I pull on a light jacket as I hurry out the door, since the weather has started to get pretty nippy lately. I can’t believe I managed to stand up my first real date since starting med school. Lately, I’m finding it increasingly difficult to focus.
When I pull up to the coffee shop, I spot Erin through the window, sitting in a booth and glancing down at her watch as she pouts. This is not a girl who is used to being stood up. I again search my brain for a plausible excuse for not showing up. I can’t think of one. And I can’t exactly tell her I forgot all about her.
I yank the door open and nearly trip over a chair hurrying over to her table.
“Hi, Erin,” I say breathlessly. “Sorry I’m late…”
She looks up at me, obviously ready to give me a piece of her mind, but her jaw falls open slightly when she sees me. I didn’t look in a mirror before leaving the apartment, and now I’m sorry—I probably look like a mess. I self-consciously run a hand through my hair in a half-hearted effort to comb it out.
I slide into the seat across from her.
