An Anonymous Girl (23 page)

A vision of the two of you, leaning toward each other in a cozy booth at the diner, is pushed away.

When you arrive at the town house, the usual welcoming rituals are performed: Your coat and wrap are hung in the closet; your oversize
purse placed on the floor beside them. You are offered a beverage but, for the first time, you refuse.

You are scrutinized. Your appearance is as compelling as ever. But you seem off today, Jessica.

You avoid sustained eye contact. You fidget relentlessly with your rings.

Why are you so distracted? Your encounter with Thomas proceeded flawlessly; you followed your directions. You describe
it when prompted: You approached him and explained you thought you’d left your phone in his booth. After a cursory search, you asked him to use his own cell phone to dial your number. He did, and the ringing indicated you’d overlooked your phone in your purse. You apologized for bothering him and departed.

Now it is time to proceed to the next step.

But before you can receive your instructions,
you stand up from the couch in the library. “I need to grab something from my bag,” you say.

After a nod of acquiescence, you retreat to the hall closet. You return a moment later holding a small tube.

You are frowning. Perhaps you are worrying again about your family’s finances, or maybe you’re suppressing questions about your latest assignment, but your emotions are not going to be managed
today. There are far more important matters at hand.

“My lips are so chapped,” you say as you run the balm in the tube with the BeautyBuzz logo over your mouth.

No response is given. You reclaim your seat.

“I need you to text the man from the diner and invite him out.”

You cast your eyes downward, to your phone. You begin to type.

“No!” you are told.

The directive is delivered
with more urgency than intended. A smile softens my tone.

“I’d like you to write the following: ‘Hi, it’s Jessica from the diner. It was nice meeting you today. Would you like to get together for a drink sometime this week?’”

You frown again. Your fingers do not move.

“What is it, Jessica?”

“It’s nothing. Just— Everyone calls me Jess. Except you. So I wouldn’t refer to myself by
my full name.”

“Fine, make that edit,” you are told.

You follow the directions. You lay the phone down in your lap and the waiting commences once more.

A chime sounds a few seconds later.

You raise your phone. “It’s just BeautyBuzz,” you say. “My next client is in an hour.”

A powerful collision of relief and disappointment is experienced.

“I didn’t realize you had booked
other jobs today,” you are told.

You appear flustered. You begin to scrape at your nail polish with a fingertip, then you catch yourself and still your hands.

“You said you only needed me for an hour or two, so . . .”

Your voice trails off.

“Are you sure your text went through?”

You glance at your phone again. “Yep, it says delivered.”

Another three minutes tick by.

Surely Thomas must have seen the text. But what if he hasn’t?

It is important that the following request contains authority rather than any hint of desperation.

“I’d like you to cancel your makeup session.”

Your throat constricts as you visibly swallow.

“Dr. Shields, you know I’d do anything for your research. But this is a good client, and she’s counting on me.” You hesitate. “She’s
hosting a big holiday party this afternoon.”

Such an inconsequential dilemma.

“Couldn’t a substitute be sent in your place?”

You shake your head. Your eyes are pleading. “BeautyBuzz has this policy. You have to give a day’s notice before you cancel.”

This was a miscalculation on your part, Jessica. A good client can’t be compared to the excessive generosity you’ve been shown. Your
priorities are skewed.

A beat of silence fills the room following your explanation. When you have twisted long enough, you are dismissed.

“Well, Jessica, I wouldn’t want you to disappoint a good client.”

“I’m sorry,” you say as you quickly rise from the couch. But words pull you back.

“I would like you to inform me as soon as Thomas replies to your text.”

You look startled.
“Of course,” you say quickly.

Then you apologize again, and you are silently escorted to the door.

Sunday, December 16

I make myself walk two blocks away from Dr. Shields’s town house before calling Thomas back, even though the whole time I was with her, all I could think about was his message.

She’s dangerous. Watch yourself.

The question searing through my mind is: How does Thomas know Dr. Shields arranged my meeting with him?

He picks up on
the first ring. Before I can ask, he says, “How do you know my wife?”

My legs buckle and I stagger, falling against a tree to balance myself. I flash to the picture of the dark-haired man with the beard in the photo in her library, the one who appeared to be about Dr. Shields’s height. I’m certain she said she was married to him.

So how could Thomas be her husband? Yet Dr. Shields clearly
knows him; she called him by name at the end of our meeting.

“Your wife?” I echo. Nausea roils my stomach and my head begins to spin. I stare down at the sidewalk to ground myself.

“Yes, Lydia Shields.” I hear him take a deep breath, like he’s trying to steady himself, too. “We’ve been married for seven years. Although we’re separated now.”

“I don’t believe you,” I blurt.

There’s
no way Dr. Shields, with her rules about honesty, would have created such an elaborate lie.

“Meet me and I’ll tell you everything,” he says. “That book sticking out of your bag . . .
The Morality of Marriage.
She wrote it a few years ago. I read the first draft in our living room. That’s how I knew she was behind this.”

I wrap my free arm around myself, bracing myself against the blustery
wind.

One of them is lying. But who?

“I’m not meeting you until you prove you’re really her husband,” I tell Thomas.

“I’ll get proof,” he says. “In the meantime, promise me you won’t say a word to her about seeing me.”

But I can’t agree. This interaction could be a test. Maybe Dr. Shields wants me to prove my loyalty.

I’m about to hang up on Thomas when he says one final thing.

“Please, Jess, just be careful. You’re not the first.”

His words land like a physical blow. I feel myself recoil.

“What do you mean?” I whisper.

“She preys on young women like you.”

I’m frozen in place.

“Jess?” I hear him repeat my name. But I can’t speak.

Finally, I disconnect the call. I slowly lower my phone and look up.

Dr. Shields is two feet away.

I gasp
and instinctively shrink back.

She materialized out of nowhere, like an apparition. She isn’t wearing a coat to protect her against the elements. She’s standing there, motionless, except for her hair, which is whipping in the wind. How much of my conversation did she overhear?

Adrenaline floods my body.

“Dr. Shields!” I cry. “I didn’t see you there!”

She looks me up and down, as
if assessing me. Then she stretches out her clenched hand and slowly unfurls her fingers.

“You forgot your lip balm, Jessica.”

I stare at her, trying to make sense of it. She followed me all this way just to return my lip balm?

I have an almost uncontrollable urge to blurt out everything Thomas has just said. If she set this all up, she knows anyway.

Prey.

The term Thomas used
is chilling. I can almost see Dr. Shields’s lips forming that exact word as she stroked the crown of the glass falcon in her office a few weeks ago. The falcon that she told me was a gift for her husband.

I take a step forward. Then another.

Now I’m so close I can glimpse the vertical furrow between her eyebrows, so faint and shallow it’s almost like a crack in a piece of glass.

“Thank
you,” I whisper as I take the lip balm. My bare fingers are numb from the cold.

She looks down at the phone I’m still holding in my other hand.

My chest tightens. I can’t breathe.

“I’m glad I caught you,” she says, then she turns to go.

Sunday, December 16

Ninety minutes after your lip balm is returned, the doorbell rings.

A glance through the peephole reveals Thomas. He is so close to the small circle of glass that his face appears distorted.

This is a surprise.

His presence was unannounced.

The deadbolt is disengaged and the heavy front door swings open.

“Sweetheart, what
brings you here?”

One arm is hidden behind his back.

He smiles and pulls it forward, revealing an enormous bouquet of paper-white narcissi.

“I was in the neighborhood,” he says.

“How lovely!”

He is welcomed inside.

He must have read the text with your invitation by now; it was sent several hours ago. Why is he really here?

Perhaps he has come to prove his fidelity by
revealing your invitation.

A hand is placed on his arm. He is offered a warm drink.

“No, thanks, I just had coffee,” he says.

It is as though he is providing an entryway into the very topic that weighs heavily on both of our minds.

“Of course. You love the coffee at Ted’s Diner.” A light laugh. “And your fried eggs, buttered bagel, and extra bacon.”

“Yup, the usual.”

A
pause.

Perhaps it is difficult for him to know where to begin.

A prompt could be helpful: “So, breakfast was good?”

His eyes dart around the living room. Evasion or unease?

“Uneventful,” he responds.

This could be interpreted in two ways. One is that his encounter with you was inconsequential. The other is that he is actively concealing it.

“Shouldn’t you place those in
water?” Thomas is staring at the bouquet.

“Of course.” We retreat to the kitchen. The green stems are snipped, and a porcelain vase is retrieved from a cabinet.

“Why don’t I put the flowers in the library for you?”

Thomas’s offer feels abrupt. He must realize it, too, because he quickly smiles.

But it isn’t one of his wide, natural smiles that reaches to his eyes.

He picks
up the vase and heads toward the library.

When he is followed, he hestiates.

“You know, coffee sounds really good after all,” he says. “I’d love a cup if it isn’t too much trouble.”

“Wonderful. I just brewed a pot.”

This is a good sign. Thomas wants to linger.

The coffee is fixed just the way he likes it, with a splash of real cream and brown sugar. A quick glance at my phone
reveals you have not yet texted to report any response from Thomas.

When the tray is brought into the library, Thomas is still positioning the vase atop the Steinway.

He spins around, a surprised look on his face.

It’s almost as though he forgot he requested the beverage.

What has startled him?

A reminder of the stakes is necessary.

“Thomas, I’ve been wondering, where did
you ever decide to put that falcon sculpture?”

It takes him a moment to answer. But when he does, it is pleasing: “In my bedroom, on the dresser. I see it every night when I go to sleep, and every morning when I wake up.”

“Perfect.” Then: “Why don’t we sit?”

He perches on the edge of the love seat and immediately reaches for his cup. He takes a quick sip, then jerks back, nearly spilling
the hot liquid.

“You seem a bit unsettled. Is there anything you wanted to talk about?”

He hesitates. Then he seems to come to a decision.

“It’s nothing for you to worry about. I just wanted to see you so I could tell you how much I love you.”

This is better than any other outcome that was envisioned.

Until Thomas glances at his watch and abruptly rises to his feet.

“I
have a lot of paperwork I need to get to,” he says ruefully. His fingertips drum against his jeans-clad thigh. “I don’t know my schedule yet for the week, but I’ll call you after I figure it out.”

He departs as quickly and unexpectedly as he arrived.

There are two strange things about Thomas’s hasty exit.

He did not offer me a parting kiss.

And aside from that single sip, the coffee
he seemed so eager for remained untouched.

Sunday, December 16

I’m sitting on a bench right outside Central Park, holding a cup of coffee I can’t drink. My stomach is too knotted to tolerate more than a sip of the bitter brew.

Their texts come in almost simultaneously.

From Dr. Shields:
Jessica, any response from Thomas yet?

From Thomas: I
got the proof. Can you meet me tonight?

I don’t
answer Dr. Shields, because there’s not going to be any response from Thomas about a date. Although I typed the text asking him out for drinks while she sat watching me in her town house, I never actually sent it.

That was the first of two lies I told to Dr. Shields this morning. I also didn’t have a BeautyBuzz client booked today, like I pretended. I just needed to get away from her.

I don’t reply to Thomas, either. There’s someone else I need to see first.

Ben Quick, Dr. Shields’s research assistant, lives on West Sixty-sixth Street.

As soon as it hit me that he was the only person I’d met who might know the truth about her, he was surprisingly easy to find. At least the apartment his parents own was.

After the doorman called up to announce my arrival, a man who
looked exactly like Ben would in thirty years emerged from the elevator.

“Ben’s not here,” he said. “If you want to leave your number, I’ll tell him you stopped by.”

The doorman gave me a piece of paper and a pen and I jotted down my information. Then I realized Ben might not remember me out of the procession of women in Dr. Shields’s study.