Page 8 of A Thin Line

He nodded, his brown eyes full of mirth. “I know. The precious simulation lab. Maybe we can get back to business as usual around here after tonight.”

Despite the creepy vibes I often got from Mr. Sherwood, I understood how frustrating it must have been to teach any subject other than one in health or science. All other departments were looked upon as supporting players…always the bridesmaid but never the bride.

“Are you here for that?” It would explain why the man was dressed all in black, an odd choice for this time of year.

“No. Just passing through—but I never want to miss an opportunity to chat with one of my favorite students.”

It was comments like those that often made me uneasy around Mr. Sherwood. He was nice enough—and seemed to care about how students performed in his classes—but he sometimes got a little too friendly. It was nothing I could put my finger on, but there was always an underlying sense that he was a little too interested. At first, I’d thought it was because he was good-looking. His full head of thick blond hair and chiseled face—along with the fact that he worked out and showed off about it—had all the girls on campus drooling, excited that they had to take one or more of his classes to meet the social science or humanities requirements.

After a couple of months in his class, I thought maybe the attention had gone to his head, and he loved having a fandom. But when he invited me out for coffee before finals week, I started thinking that wasn’t the case. I took him up on his offer—seemingly innocuous, because it was at the college coffee cart—and we simply sat in some furniture in a lounge area in the main building. But he got a little too close and personal, asking all about my family and the tribulations my dad had undergone as a result of speaking out against what he’d seen as wrongdoing.

But even that I was able to blow off—especially when I got a B in his class instead of an A. He wasn’t playing favorites.

Still…any opportunity he had, he would pull me aside to chat—and he’d place a hand on my shoulder or arm, something he could flatly deny was inappropriate but felt so just the same.

And, because of that, I would often respond flippantly when he would indicate his fondness for me. “Oh? Where are they? There are lots of students here tonight.”

“You know I mean you, Anna.”

That was another thing—the first two weeks in his class, I’d told him multiple times that my name was Annalise, and if he had to call me by a nickname, I much preferred Lise. I got the feeling he liked calling me by a name no one else did. So I simply shrugged and looked toward the auditorium entrance where people were beginning to amass, picking up programs and talking with one another. Even though Mr. Sherwood made me uncomfortable, the well-to-do made me feel the same way but for different reasons. I had nothing in common with them. At least Mr. Sherwood seemed to have more of a middle-class background, something I could better relate to.

So I decided that, if he were going to be here for a while, I’d change the subject. “At least this is almost over.”

“What do you mean? It’s only beginning.”

“Yeah,” I said, shrugging, “but we’ve been working all day—actually, all month—for this event. I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

“Of course. That makes sense.” After a few seconds, he said, “Ah, that’s Dr. Jonas and his wife,” indicating a middle-aged couple coming through the door. “Do you know them?”

“No.”

“He’s my dentist.” Leaning closer, he dropped his voice. “Most people don’t know this, but he’s probably the richest man in Winchester.”

“Really?” I hadn’t heard that, but I didn’t gossip much—and, even had I wanted to, I didn’t have anyone close to talk with.

“Yep. He makes a lot of money at his business, but he does a lot of investing too.”

Which probably meant he was another hater of my father.

Mr. Sherwood said, “I suppose Leona will have her hands out at this little shindig tonight.”

Although he called her Leona around me, I suspected that he, like most people on campus, would only call her Dr. Rakhimov to her face out of deference. And despite what I thought of her lack of skills in talking with students, I had to give her credit. Turning my head from the people trickling in, I looked back at him. “She knows how to raise money.”

“That she does.” His expression suddenly changed, but I wasn’t sure why—until he spoke again. “I love when your eyes do that.”

“Do what?”

“I can’t explain it. I could stare into your eyes for hours.”

That was one of those borderline-inappropriate things he’d say on occasion. But it still wasn’t enough that I felt like I had a harassment case…and Mr. Sherwood seemed harmless. I doubted he’d ever do anything out of line to jeopardize his position at the college. Still, I flashed him a weak smile and turned back to watch the proceedings—removing him the opportunity of any more time staring into my eyes.

Dr. Rakhimov bounded out of the auditorium. She was a force to behold and, as long as you weren’t one of the objects getting torn up in her tornado, she was fascinating to watch. Based on how Mr. Sherwood clammed up, I suspected he felt the same way.

Unfortunately, after hobnobbing with a couple and then chatting with a couple students, she turned my way as if sensing where I was, her eyes zeroing in on me. Quickly, she strode over. She had words for me but restrained herself, shifting her gaze to the man I stood next to. “Mr. Sherwood, to what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Dr. Rakhimov,” he nodded. “Much as I’d like to stick around, I have other obligations—but I wanted to see what kind of crowd you drew.” Glancing around the lobby, he added, “Impressive as always.”

“Thank you. We’re fortunate to have such magnanimous donors.”

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