Chapter 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 is not something 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.