Page 1 of A Thin Line

Chapter 1

This day would not be over soon enough.

Earlier in June, I’d accepted the work-study position as Teaching Assistant for Dr. Leona Rakhimov, dean of the community college’s nursing program. Future health care workers in various programs in the department often called Dr. Rakhimov Cruella de Vil, a nickname she earned daily. In the seven weeks I’d been toiling under her, there had been two lessons she’d continually imparted on me: one was that the nursing program was the only thing keeping Winchester Community College afloat.

The second was that she was going to make a competent student employee out of me if it was the last thing she did.

If I hadn’t needed financial aid, I would have quit after the first day.

Today, though, she was worse than she’d ever been.

“Annalise!” she barked. Her voice sounded raspy through the stupid walkie-talkie she had me wearing on an ugly leather belt, all so I could be at her beck and call.

“I’m here, Dr. Rakhimov.”

“Give me an update.”

I’d never seen her this uptight about anything before. Although I hadn’t been working for her very long, I’d seen her run the gamut of emotions. The woman hugged the negative side, but this was probably the first time I’d ever known her to be nervous. She would have denied it, had anyone asked, but I couldn’t miss it.

I suspected I knew why, but any sympathy I might’ve had for her flew out the window.

We were preparing for a huge event that evening, one to celebrate the new simulation lab for the nursing program. Because I’d only taken (and finished) one class that summer—a quick four-week course focused on study habits, something I should have taken my first semester—I was now helping Dr. R. almost full-time, and most of our attention had been on preparing for the completion of the lab. Not so much the completion but the celebration that it would be ready for fall classes, and she’d invited dozens of the town’s wealthiest families to drink champagne and eat charcuterie while hobnobbing with Denver billionaire Sinclair Whittier.

I shuddered just thinking about it.

“I’m waiting.”

“Oh, uh…all the signage is up.” A jolt of panic charged up my spine as I remembered a crucial detail I’d almost forgotten. “And I’m getting ready to run to the print shop right now to get the programs.”

“All right. Keep me posted.”

The walkie-talkie spat out some static and went dead again. I clipped it back on my belt while walking around the lab, looking for my so-called helper Jenna, on loan for today only from Admissions.

I had to admit, despite my disgust with where the money had come from to create the lab, that this space really was a sight. It almost made me wish I was interested in being a nurse. But health care didn’t get me excited any more than any other degree the college offered—so I’d signed up for a general associate’s degree, the first step to getting out of this horrible town.

There were stations all throughout the series of rooms constituting the lab that simulated just about any health care situation the students might find themselves encountering. I walked past a “patient” in bed—an animatronic dummy—marveling at the machines hooked up to her. I’d already seen during a demonstration earlier in the week how the faux patient would actually “respond” to having her vitals taken. Although the dummies were interesting, they were also creepy. Their eyes were wide and round, their lips spread open as if they were in horrifying pain with no ability to scream.

Where in the name of heaven was Jenna?

I was about to call for her as I turned a corner and found her sitting on the edge of a hospital bed. “Jenna!”

The red-haired girl startled—and then jumped off the bed, still thumb-tapping on her phone. “Sorry. I know I’m not supposed to be on there. I was just—”

“Fine. Just smooth out the sheet—and don’t let Dr. R. catch you doing that.”

“I won’t.” Jenna finally looked at me, her brown eyes unapologetic. “So what’s up?”

“I need to run to the print shop to pick up the programs.” For a split second, I considered sending Jenna so she would actually be working—but I glanced at the clock on the wall. The print shop would be closing in about ten minutes and I didn’t dare leave something that important up to her. Regardless of what I thought of Dr. R. or the Whittiers, I needed to actually get something out of my experience at the college—which meant I needed to make sure things were done right while in this position. I could leave nothing up to chance. “So please doublecheck everything to make sure it’s set up right.”

“It is. You know it is. You just said as much to Cruella.”

I loved that her hearing worked perfectly when she was eavesdropping. “Fine. Just…” Frustrated, I shook my head, wishing this girl had an ounce of initiative. “…keep an eye on things.” We’d already tested all the devices the way the manufacturers had shown us so that we could demonstrate them, and I didn’t trust her to remember how to make sure everything was set—just how to test to make sure everything was working as designed. I’d already checked it three times today.

It was fine. But Dr. Rakhimov was demanding.

“On it, boss.” Managing to not roll my eyes, I turned toward the exit. Before I could take a step, Jenna asked, “Have you ever met him before?”

“Who?”

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