An Anonymous Girl(24)

Then a second pair of footsteps, much heavier ones, began to descend from somewhere above.

Symptoms of terror include a racing heart, light-headedness, and chest pain.

Breathing exercises can only help people through situations in which panic is not warranted.

Here, it was.

My presence would be announced by the glow of my phone. Running in complete darkness could lead to a fall. But these were necessary risks.

“Hello?” a man’s deep voice called.

It did not belong to Hugh.

“What’s going on? It must be a blackout,” the man continued. “Are you okay?”

His manner was soothing and kind. He stayed by my side for the next hour, during the trek from Midtown to the West Village, until we reached my residence.

In every lifetime, there are pivot points that shape and eventually cement one’s path.

Thomas Cooper’s materialization was one of these seismic moments.

A week after the blackout, we went to dinner.

Six months later, we were married.

Everyone who met Thomas liked him.

But loving him was something reserved only for me.





CHAPTER


FIFTEEN


Tuesday, December 4

I have less than forty-eight hours to locate Taylor.

She is my sole fragile link to Dr. Shields. If I can track her down before my next session on Thursday at five P.M., I won’t be going into it blind.

After I leave the French restaurant, I find Taylor’s contact info in my phone and text her: Hi Taylor, It’s Jess from BeautyBuzz. Can you call me asap?

When I get home, I grab my laptop and try to glean more information about Dr. Shields. But my search yields only academic papers, reviews of the book she authored, her four-line NYU biography, and a website for her private practice. The website is sleek and elegant, like her office but, also like that space, it doesn’t contain a single real clue about the woman it represents.

I finally fall asleep after midnight, my phone by my side.

Wednesday, December 5

When I wake up at six A.M., my eyes heavy from my restless night, Taylor still hasn’t responded. I’m not really surprised; she probably thinks it’s bizarre that some makeup artist is trying to reach her.

Thirty-five hours left, I think.

Even though I want to skip my back-to-back appointments and continue to try to get answers, I have to go to work. Not only do I need the money, but BeautyBuzz has a policy that makeup artists must give a full day’s notice before canceling scheduled jobs. Three strikes in three months and you’re eliminated from their roster. Since I called in sick a few weeks ago, I already have one.

I feel like I’m on autopilot as I smooth foundation, blend shadows, and line lips. I ask about clients’ jobs, husbands, and kids, but I keep thinking about Dr. Shields. Especially about how little I know of her personally, and contrasting that with the deep secrets I’ve shared with her.

I’m persistently aware of my phone tucked inside my bag. The second I leave each appointment, I snatch it up and check the screen. But even though I leave Taylor another message, this one via voice mail at around noon, there is no response.

At seven P.M. I splurge on a taxi home, which burns through the tips from my last few jobs but gets me there faster. I drop my case just inside the door, hustle Leo up and down the street and throw him a few treats, then hurry back out.

I head directly to Taylor’s apartment a couple dozen blocks away at a pace just short of a run. When I get there, it’s nearly eight P.M. I lean a hand against the glass case containing the lobby directory, panting, and search the listed names.

I press the buzzer for T. Straub, then wait to hear her voice over the intercom. I try to slow my breathing, then smooth a hand over my hair.

I press my finger against the little black circle again, this time for a full five seconds.

Come on, I think.

I step back, looking up at the building, and wonder what I should do next. I can’t just wait around, hoping Taylor will return. How long can I continue jabbing at her buzzer on the off chance she is napping or listening to music on her headphones?

Assistance arrives in the form of a sweaty guy dressed in an Adidas tracksuit, who taps in the front door code. He’s busy staring at his phone and doesn’t even notice me as I catch the door before it closes and sneak in behind him.

I take the stairs to the sixth floor. I find Taylor’s apartment midway down the hall and rap my knuckles against the door so firmly they sting.

No answer.

I press my ear against the flimsy wood, listening for any sounds that would indicate she is inside—the blaring of a television or the drone of a hair dryer. But there is only silence.

Nausea grips my stomach. I fear Dr. Shields knows me so well that when I see her I won’t be able to camouflage my worries. I’m desperate to ask her questions: Why are you giving me all this money? What are you doing with the information I give you?

But I can’t. I’ve been telling myselt it’s so I don’t risk losing the income. But the truth is, maybe it’s more that I don’t want to risk losing Dr. Shields.

I lift my fist and thump a few more times, until the next-door neighbor sticks out her head and glares at me.

“Sorry,” I say meekly and she shuts her door again.

I try to think of what to do next. I’ve got twenty-one hours left. But tomorrow, like today, is full of clients; I won’t be able to come back before my appointment with Dr. Shields. I dig into my bag and pull out the copy of Vogue I am carrying around and tear out a piece of the glossy paper. I locate a pen and scribble: Taylor, It’s Jess again, from BeautyBuzz. Please call me. It’s urgent.