An Anonymous Girl(43)
One of the first questions in the morality survey: Would you ever read your spouse’s/significant other’s text messages?
Thomas’s passcode has traditionally been the month and day of his birth.
It is unchanged.
“Lydia? The Tylenol isn’t in the medicine cabinet.” His voice carries from the top of the stairs.
My footsteps are swift, but when my tone comes from the bottom landing, it remains steady and unhurried.
“Are you certain? I just bought some.”
The Tylenol is in the medicine cabinet, but tucked behind a box containing a new skin-care cream. More than a cursory glance will be necessary to locate it.
A creak in the floorboard indicates he is moving toward the master bathroom again.
His glass of water is procured. Then the green phone icon is touched. Recent texts and phone calls are surveyed.
My phone’s camera function is already engaged.
Quickly, but meticulously, the record of Thomas’s many recent calls is captured. His texts appear completely unremarkable and so are disregarded.
Every photograph is assessed to make sure the digital evidence is clear; quality cannot be sacrificed to speed.
The house is utterly quiet. Too quiet?
“Thomas? Are you okay?”
“Yep,” he calls.
Perhaps he is applying a cold washcloth to his pulse points.
More photographs are amassed, documenting perhaps thirty-five phone calls. Some numbers are assigned to contacts with recognizable names: Thomas’s dentist, squash partner, and parents. Others, eight in total, are unfamiliar. They all have New York City area codes.
The deleted call record log is similarly documented, which turns up one additional unfamiliar number, this one with a 301 area code.
It will be a simple matter to determine whether these numbers are completely innocuous. If a man answers, or it it belongs to a place of business, the phone number will be considered irrelevant and the call will be immediately terminated.
If a woman answers, the call will also be quickly aborted.
But that number will be saved for further scrutiny.
His phone is replaced on the counter. His glass of water is brought to the library.
He should have returned by now.
“Thomas?” He does not respond.
He is met at the top of the staircase just as he emerges from the bedroom.
“Were you able to find it?”
He looks distinctly unwell now. He will require three aspirin followed by a long rest in a darkened room.
The evening’s encounter will come to a necessary, abrupt end.
The hope in Thomas’s eyes that further intimacies would progress has been extinguished.
“No,” he says. His distress is evident.
“I’ll get it,” he is told.
In the bathroom, he squints against the bright light. The medicine cabinet is surveyed. The luxury moisturizer is moved aside.
“It’s right here.”
Back downstairs, he swallows three pills and is offered a respite on the couch.
He shakes his head, then winces at the movement.
“I think I’d better go,” he says.
His coat is retrieved and offered to him.
“Your phone.” He nearly left it on the counter.
As it is picked up, a quick glance at the screen confirms it has automatically re-locked.
He tucks it into the pocket of his coat.
“I’m so sorry I had to cut this night short,” he says.
“I’ll make a call to the bakery first thing in the morning.” A pause. “The woman who waited on me needs to know her mistake.”
Phone calls concerning a mistake will be made tomorrow. That much is true.
But not to anyone Thomas expects.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
Monday, December 10
Nothing about Dr. Shields’s home comes as a surprise to me.
I get invited into many people’s residences on Monday mornings to do makeup, and evidence of their weekend’s activities is usually on display: the Sunday New York Times splayed out on a coffee table, wineglasses from a party drying upside down on a dish rack, kids’ soccer cleats and shin guards scattered by the entryway.
But when I arrived at Dr. Shields’s town house in the West Village, I figured it would look like a spread in Architectural Digest—all muted colors and elegant pieces of furniture, chosen for aesthetics rather than comfort or function. And I’m right, it’s like an extension of her meticulous office.
After Dr. Shields greets me at the door and takes my coat, she leads me into the open, sunny kitchen. She’s wearing a creamy turtleneck sweater and dark-rinse fitted jeans, and her hair is in a low ponytail.
“You just missed my husband,” she says, clearing away two matching coffee mugs from the counter and depositing them in the sink. “I was hoping to introduce you, but unfortunately he had to head into his office.”
Before I can ask more—I’m so curious about the man—Dr. Shields gestures to a small platter of fresh berries and scones.
“I didn’t know if you’d had the chance to eat breakfast,” she says. “Do you prefer coffee or tea?”
“Coffee would be great,” I say. “Thanks.”
When I finally texted Dr. Shields back on Sunday afternoon, she again asked how I was feeling before she invited me here. I truthfully replied that I was a lot better than when I left the hotel bar on Friday night. I slept in until Leo licked my face demanding a walk, worked a few jobs, and went out with Noah. I did one other thing, too. As soon as the bank opened on Saturday morning, I deposited the check for seven hundred fifty dollars. I still feel like the money could float away; until I see the balance on my statement, it doesn’t seem real that I could be earning so much.