An Anonymous Girl(103)

“Merry Christmas, Jessica.”

I instinctively look around, but I don’t see a soul.

I’m a block away from home. I could scoop up Leo and run, I think. I could make it.

“Dinner is at six o’clock,” Dr. Shields says. “Would you like me to send a car for you?”

“What?” I say.

My mind is spinning, trying to keep up with her: She must have used a burner phone, maybe even the one she had me use to call Reyna and Tiffani. That’s why I didn’t recognize the number.

“You do recall I told your parents that you and I would celebrate the holiday together,” she continues.

“I’m not coming over!” I shout. “Not tonight, and not ever again!”

I’m about to hang up when she says in her silvery voice, “But I have a gift for you, Jessica.”

It’s the way she says it that makes my blood freeze. I’ve heard this tone before. It signals that she’s at her most dangerous.

“I don’t want it,” I say. My throat tightens. I’ve almost arrived at my building.

But the security door is open.

Did I remember to pull it shut tightly when I left? The sudden stillness of the city distracted me; I could have forgotten.

Is it safer inside, or out here on the street?

“Mmm, that’s a shame,” Dr. Shields says. She’s enjoying this; she’s like a cat playing with an injured mouse. “I guess if you won’t come over and accept my gift, I’ll have to turn it over to the police.”

“What are you talking about?” I whisper.

“The digital recording,” she says. “The one of you breaking into my town house.”

Her words hammer into me.

Thomas must have set me up. He’s the only one who knew I snuck in there.

“I just noticed my diamond necklace is missing,” Dr. Shields says lightly. “Luckily, I thought to check the security camera I recently installed. I know how desperate you are for money, Jessica, but I never thought you’d resort to this.”

I didn’t take anything, but if she turns in that recording, I’ll be arrested. No one will ever believe Thomas, her husband, gave me the key. Dr. Shields could say I watched her enter the alarm code when I was over there. She’ll have the perfect cover story.

I can’t afford a lawyer, and what good would it do? She’ll outmaneuver me at every turn.

I was wrong; things could get worse for me. Much worse.

I know what I need to say to appease her.

I close my eyes. “What do you want me to do?” I ask hoarsely.

“Just show up for dinner at six,” she says. “No need to bring anything. See you then.”

I spin around, staring at the empty streets.

I’m hyperventilating.

If I’m arrested, it will not only destroy my life but my family’s, too.

A gust of wind forces the security door to swing open a few inches. I jerk back instinctively.

Dr. Shields isn’t here, I tell myself. She knows I’ll show up at her house for dinner.

Still, I grab Leo and burst through the entryway before sprinting up the stairs.

I have my keys out long before I reach my floor. I can see my hallway is clear, but I don’t stop running until I reach my apartment.

Once I’m inside, I search my entire studio before I put Leo down.

Then I collapse onto my bed, gasping.

It’s a little after eleven o’clock. I have seven hours to figure out how to save myself.

But I have to acknowledge I might not be able to.

I close my eyes and imagine the faces of my parents and Becky, conjuring memories I’ve amassed through the years: I see my mother rushing into my elementary school nurse’s office in her good blue suit, the one she wore to her secretarial job, because the nurse had called to report I was running a fever. I see my father standing in the backyard, bending his arm as he teaches me how to throw a football with a perfect spiral. I see Becky tickling the bottoms of my feet as we lay head to toe on opposite ends of the couch.

I hold on to the visions of the only people I love in this world until my breathing has finally slowed. By then, I know what I have to do.

I stand up and reach for my cell phone. My family called earlier this morning and left a message wishing me a Merry Christmas. I couldn’t answer; I knew they’d hear the strain in my voice.

But now I can’t put off revealing any longer what I’ve kept hidden for fifteen years. I might not ever get another chance to tell my parents what they deserve to know.

I dial my mother with trembling fingers.

She answers immediately: “Honey! Merry Christmas!”

My throat is so tight it’s hard to speak. There’s no easy way to do this—I have to plunge right in. “Can you put Dad on, too? But not Becky. I need to talk to you two alone.”

I’m gripping the phone so hard my fingers hurt.

“Hold on, sweetie, he’s right here.” I can tell from my mother’s tone that she knows something is very wrong.

Whenever I’d imagined this conversation before, I could never get past the opening sentence: I have to tell you the truth about what happened to Becky.

Now I hear my dad’s deep, gravelly voice: “Jessie? Mom and I are both on.” And I can’t even say that one line.