Page 59 of A Thin Line

My foot. The ankle, specifically, felt like it was on fire. Finally, I raised my body to survey the remaining damage: my phone was in the middle of the cleared space on the floor with the drinking glass a little farther away in pieces, water all over the place. As I lifted myself up more, I began moving my legs and stopped again as pain radiated throughout my foot as I bore weight on it.

Had I broken it?

At the top of the stairs came Sinclair’s voice. “Annalise, are you all right?”

For a moment, my breath stopped. That was the first time he’d ever called me by my first name. But then the pain overrode any weird emotions in my body. I heard him coming down the stairs already, but I said, “I fell—and I hurt my foot.”

“Goddammit. It was the step.”

“Yes.”

By that point, he was by my side, helping me up—but he didn’t set me on my feet. Instead, he carried me—up the stairs and then down the west wing to the study. Once there, he propped me up on a loveseat and was examining my foot. “You’ve definitely hurt it.”

In pain, I couldn’t stop the sarcasm. “You think?”

“There’s an urgent care near here. I’ll take you.”

“Let me try walking.”

“No. My negligence has already cost you. Wait here.”

When he left, I sat up, then stood, gingerly and slowly putting weight on the foot that hurt, causing sharp pain to radiate through the area. Breathless, I nearly fell back on the loveseat.

In less than a minute, he returned. “Had to get my keys.”

As he started to pick me up again, I said, “I might be able to hop if you can hold me on one side.”

“Carrying you is faster.” With that, he scooped me up in his arms again and took me down the west rear hall toward the garage—a place I hadn’t been since the night he’d picked me up on the street when I’d tried running away. He carried me as if I weighed no more than a pillow—and, had I not been so distraught, I might have felt grateful.

I might have even enjoyed being so close to him, touching him, feeling the heat of his body against mine.

“Please just let me recover here. I don’t have the money for my copay.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. If you broke a bone or several of them, they might not heal correctly if you’re not treated by a doctor. Besides, what happened here is technically an injury that would be covered by Worker’s Compensation if I were paying you like a regular worker. And, in case you’ve forgotten, I’m paying for your insurance and all costs associated with it.” When we reached the bay with the silver Lexus, he set me down softly. “Is this okay for a second?”

“Yes.” But I noticed now that I was standing and not in his arms that my foot was beginning to throb. I tried to ignore it, but it was difficult.

Once he had the passenger door open, he asked, “Can you get in or do you need me to pick you up?”

“I think I can manage.” Still, he helped and soon I was seated.

When he got in on the driver’s side, he said, “Rest assured I will pay for whatever treatment you need. This was caused by my negligence.”

It wasn’t long before he’d backed out of the garage and, as he began driving down the alley, the door slowly lowered itself. The only times I’d been back here were at night and so I’d failed to notice something.

There were two garages. I realized he’d said something about it the first night, but it hadn’t registered until I actually saw it.

Between the two garages were a couple of trash and recycling barrels. The other garage appeared to have as many bays as the one Sinclair kept this car in, so I was curious. “Do you have more cars in the other garage?”

“I keep the cars I drive in this garage, including a couple of collectible sports cars—but I’ve been thinking of getting rid of them. I don’t drive them as much as I should. Someone else should get enjoyment out of them. In the other garage, there are cars for Edna and Gregory and Greg’s wife, as well as a riding lawn mower.”

He drove down the narrow streets at a speed that made me nervous, but he seemed to be a good driver, and it wasn’t long before he pulled into a shopping center that had an urgent care building sitting by itself in one part of the parking lot. Better still, there were parking spaces nearby designated specifically for patients.

And he picked me up again, carrying me in. I felt relieved that there were only two other patients in the waiting area. A nurse brought out a wheelchair for me, making me feel stupid—because if I’d been paying attention, this wouldn’t have happened. Meanwhile, Sinclair got me checked in and, in just another minute, we were back in the triage area.

The nurse asked what happened and what hurt, and she concluded that I’d need x-rays to begin with. “Ordinarily, we’d wheel you back in the waiting room, but considering you’re VIPs, I’ll get you in a private room.”

VIPs? Was that due to the Whittier name?

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